The Souvenir
by Ramos
Summary: Hogwarts is overrun by Death Eaters during the trio's seventh year. Hermione is 'captured' and given to Snape for safekeeping. Separated from her friends, she must decide how much to trust the man.
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his world are the property of J.K. Rowling and her assorted publishers. No infringement is intended and no profit made from their use.

14 June, 1998

"Miss Granger!" demanded the deep, forceful whisper. Hermione whirled at bay, her wand out, a reflexive hex on her lips. Behind her, the statue of the hump-backed witch clicked shut behind the two young students now safely on their way down the secret passage out of Hogwarts to Honeydukes. If the boys kept their heads, they'd reach the safety of Hogsmeade before the Death Eaters breached the final defenses.

"Professor Snape?" Hermione managed, looking up at the tall, imposing figure striding down the hall towards her. The man was intimidating in his scholar's robes, but in the black and gray of Voldemort's supporters, he was terrifying. A silver mask hung from a tie around his neck, disappearing into the cowl of his cloak.

"What are you doing here?" he questioned fiercely. "You were supposed to evacuate with the other students! The wards have just given way!"

"No!" she breathed, knowing her denial was futile even as she said the word. "There are still a few students left here!" The Maurader's Map, clenched in her fingers, showed the castle nearly deserted, save for a few dots milling here and there, most in the Slytherin common room. However, more than half a dozen names showed where students were hiding in the Astronomy tower or Hufflepuff's territory.

"If they were too stupid to flee with Dumbledore and the teachers, then they're on their own," Snape told her in a in a tone that brooked no argument, seizing her upper arm and dragging her to a staircase. They clattered down several flights before Hermione could summon the breath to ask where they were going.

"There's a door beyond the classroom area that leads out to the greenhouses," he told her sharply. "Ermengarde uses it to slip down to the village for a nip now and then at the Three Broomsticks."

"Professor Sprout drinks?" she asked. Her mind was stupidly grasping on the irrelevant even as her life was crashing down around her. She was hushed suddenly as Snape put his hand over her mouth and pressed them both back into the shadows. She heard an excited voice saying, "See? Didn't I tell you? Lord Voldemort will be pleased, won't he!" The heavy footfalls of several pairs of boots echoed dully down the corridor.

"Yes, Pansy," replied a voice, echoed by wordless agreement from other men's throats. "You're as resourceful as I'd always hoped, my darling."

Snape made no noise, but his head dropped slightly as though he'd curse if he had the time and energy to spare. Without a sound he pulled Hermione from their shared niche and dragged her back they way they'd come.

"You are in very grave danger," he hissed over his shoulder to her. "You should never have remained here. Why didn't you follow Potter and the other teachers?"

"I couldn't," she whispered back, breathless with their pace. "Only Harry can close the doorway to the Chamber of.."

"Don't tell me," he interrupted harshly. "I don't want to know how Dumbledore evacuated the school. I'm going to be hard pressed to explain how several hundred students disappeared from under my nose as it is."

"And if you don't know, you can't be forced to tell," Hermione confirmed.

"Exactly. And I'm wasting precious time trying to save a foolish Head Girl when I should be helping the Death Eaters invade Hogwarts."

"Then let me go," Hermione demanded, wrenching her wrist from his grip. "Tell Voldemort someone cast a silencing spell over your lab and you only realized what was happening when the wards fell. I'll escape on my own, and you'll be safe."

"Don't be stupid!" he sneered as he grabbed her arm once more, forcing her to keep up with his rapid pace. "Death Eaters are already combing the castle. You'll more likely be captured and tortured for everything you know."

"I wouldn't say anything!" she protested hotly.

Snape abruptly pushed her against the wall, deliberately attempting to frighten her. It worked. "You would," he told her flatly. "Cruciatus, combined with Veritaserum, is a very persuasive interrogation method. You'll tell Voldemort where your friends went, and who helped them, and who helped you, and then both our bodies will be left here, displayed in creative ways for the Ministry to find when they finally get off their official collective arses and come to investigate the Dark Mark floating above Hogwarts."

Horrified, Hermione only stared back at his harsh countenance so close to her own. Before either one could say another word, the sound of boots echoed through the corridor and a man's voice called Snape's name in a loud, authoritarian tone.

"Snape! There you are," said the voice, issued from behind another silver mask. "Wondered where you'd disappeared to. Found something to keep you busy, have you?"

Hermione struggled to flee, but Snape's grip tightened. "You could say that," he purred, pushing his body against hers.

"Don't," she told him, fighting to keep herself away from him, but his face buried itself in the crook of her neck.

"Scream," he whispered. When she did not immediately comply, he sank his teeth into the top of her shoulder. A shriek forced itself from her lips, causing the other Death Eater to chuckle.

"I see," the man said, his amusement evident at Hermione's situation. "Our lord is in the main hall, and he has commanded us all to join him. Don't dally too long."

"Not too much longer," Snape promised absently, his hands tightening on Hermione's arms until she cried out in pain once more.

As the echoes of the anonymous Death Eater's footfalls faded in the distance, Snape released his grip on Hermione and stepped back. Frightened beyond words, Hermione glanced up at his dark eyes and saw very little to reassure her. He glanced down the hallway and then back to her.

"You understand the role you must play?" he asked thinly.

Hermione's head jerked as she nodded, and after a moment shrugged the heavy black student robe down her shoulders, revealing her white uniform blouse. Without a word she loosened the red and gold tie around her neck, and then desperately not thinking about what she was doing, grasped either side of her shirt front and wrenched. One button flew free; the other broke in half and dangled from a loose thread. The edge of her white bra peeked through the rent fabric, and she pushed the shirt and bra strap aside far enough to expose the bite on her shoulder, already going purple in a perfect imprint of his crooked tooth pattern.

It took everything she had not to flinch as Severus Snape's long, thin fingers reached for the loose knot of her tie and slid it free, smoothing the creased silk. Hermione pulled out the Maurader's Map and her wand, muttering "Mischief managed," before holding them both out to her teacher. Snape thrust both the wand and the map, now blank parchment, into one of the inner pockets of his robe before tying Hermione's unresisting hands together with the tie.

"Will this do?" she asked nervously. "Will it fool them?"

Severus glanced at her face as he pulled the silk tight. "It will be more convincing if you could summon tears," he said brusquely.

Hermione stared at his harsh features, trying to school her features and thoughts into the proper mindset of a victim. After a moment, she shook her head.

"I can't," she whispered.

"If you expect us to survive the next hour, Miss Granger, I suggest you try."

She took a quick breath and looked at him through the tangled curls of her hair. "Then hit me."

The faint crease between his black brows might have been consternation, but his hand hesitated no more than a moment as he lifted it and slapped Hermione across the face. She gasped at the impact, but quickly shook her hair back and faced him boldly once more.

"Harder," she ordered breathlessly.

This time there was no hesitation as his hand struck her with a harsh crack, jerking her face to one side. Her exposed chest heaved with a sob, and when she glanced up again, involuntary tears tracked down her cheeks. A spot of blood appeared at the corner of her mouth, growing larger as she probed it with her fingers. The imprint of his fingers showed boldly on her fair skin.

Without conscious thought Severus reached out to her, wanting to apologize, to mollify the damage he'd done. Instead, he grasped the silken end of her tie as it dangled between her wrists and pulled her after him, cinching the silver mask onto his face as he went to meet his lord.

Dragging his captive behind him, making no allowances for her shorter legs, Severus crossed through the milling crowd of Death Eaters to the center of the Great Hall. The Head Table lay smashed on the floor behind the dais, its broken legs stabbing mutely towards the enchanted ceiling. In its place, Voldemort had appropriated the Headmaster's chair and sat enthroned before his minions. His head lifted with interest as he perceived the pair coming forward.

"My Lord," Snape announced obsequiously, bowing deeply before the reptilian wizard. "I submit myself to your punishment. I was unaware of Dumbledore's plans, and I offer no excuses."

"Let me guess – you were in your laboratory, and did not hear the students scurrying away like rats in the night?" His red eyes flicked towards Peter Pettigrew at his side, who shuffled self-consciously at his leader's joke.

"When I realized you had come at last, my lord, I did go in search of the students. Unfortunately, I was -- distracted," he admitted, bowing his head once more, even as he shoved Hermione to the ground, ignoring her whimpers as her knees landed on the hard flagstone floor.

"Distracted?" echoed Voldemort. "It has been a long time since you have indulged at the revels I have created for my loyal followers, Severus. And now you have the nerve to say this child distracted you?"

"A special case, my lord. Something of a memento of my years under Dumbledore's yoke."

Voldemort's red eyes narrowed into slits, and Hermione's blood chilled as a chuffing noise came from the wizard's chest until she realized he was laughing.

"A memento. Your sense of humor is sharp as ever, Severus." He beckoned with one hand. "Let us see this souvenir."

A hand twisted into Hermione's hair and another closed around her upper arm, jerking her off the floor. She did not have to pretend to be frightened as Snape dragged her forward and presented her to the world's most feared wizard. Even with her eyes closed she could sense his red eyes raking over her body, from the snarled hair and bruised lip to her exposed, heaving chest.

"Look at me," demanded the cold voice, and she fearfully cracked open her eyelids to see Voldemort staring down at her.

"Who are you?" he asked.

She wet her dry lips gingerly. "Her-Hermione Granger," she admitted.

"Granger? I'm not familiar with the family," Voldemort mused. "Severus?"

"She's a Muggle-born," Snape sneered. "No one will miss her, or ask about her. And I have put up with her for nearly seven years."

"Head Girl," mused Voldemort, spying the little pin on her robes. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully before he raised his wand. "_Probatio_," he muttered.

Hermione, tensed for an Unforgivable, gasped as the spell swept over her. The power shivered down through her body and then swirled into the air before Voldemort.

The wizard frowned at the female outline forming in the air before him. The head glowed brightly golden, the heart a bright pink. The entire form itself was a pale, spring green, while the lower abdomen included a pinpoint of pure white.

"Interesting." Voldemort banished the image with a wave of his hand. "She's intelligent and spirited."

"And a virgin," Snape added with surprised, oily satisfaction. "Which will make it that much more fun to break her."

"Not so fast," interrupted a tenor voice, and both wizards turned to the Death Eater who had been standing to one side. Draco Malfoy shoved his mask up to better confront his Head of House. "I want her."

"And this concerns me?" Snape drawled.

Draco's face flushed with anger. "I've been searching all over the school for her. I want her, and I demand you give her to me."

"You demand?" questioned Snape coldly. "Who are you to demand anything? You're a whelp – nothing but a spoilt daddy's boy."

"How dare you!" Draco shouted. "My father will –"

"Your father will do nothing," Voldemort interjected mildly, and Draco's flush quickly faded as he realized who he'd been raising his voice to. "If you truly wish to dispute your confederate's right to keep the Mudbood, you can duel for her."

"What?" Draco asked.

"Duel," Severus repeated with casual emphasis. "It has always been our way to settle disputes over the spoils. Care to duel?" He pulled Hermione's body closer to his own while he twirled his wand casually, knowing full well the junior Malfoy was hopelessly outmatched.

"You will learn, young Malfoy, that your position in my court is not granted on your father's name," Voldemort told the young man silkily. "Severus Snape has served me and earned my indulgence. You are earning yourself nothing but a reminder of your place."

Draco paled even further and murmured something apologetic, bowing low before his master.

"There remains the question of what I shall do with you, Severus," Voldemort continued. Snape immediately went to one knee.

"Punish me as you see fit, my lord. I have no excuses for my tardiness, nor for allowing the old fool to escape with the students."

"Get up, Severus. You're getting your robes dirty, and you're starting to sound like Wormtail. As for Dumbledore and his brats, I don't really care. In fact, it means less work for us all, in the long run. Prisoners are so tedious.

"Hogwarts is mine," he said, leaning back in his chair with satisfaction. "The very fact that the old fool has fled shows his fear of me. Although he obviously suspected you of returning to my service, it matters little. Your intelligence has been of great value, and your service will be rewarded." The red eyes flickered over the kneeling man before him, and his captive.

"Take your souvenir and go. Break her as you will, but don't kill her. She may yet be useful."

"You are merciful, my lord. Thank you." Snape dragged Hermione by the arm and withdrew from the room. His black eyes caught hers and flashed meaningfully. Her breath caught as she realized what he meant and she began to struggle.

"No," she cried out. "No, no, no, NO!" Despite her best efforts, Snape reeled her closer and clamped a wiry arm around her waist. Several of the Death Eaters chuckled at the scene.

"Want a hand?" offered one silver-masked individual. "I've always enjoyed breaking a spirited filly."

"No," Snape cut him off coldly. He pressed one long-fingered hand around Hermione's throat, pushing her head against his shoulder. "I've got it under control." He waited until she sagged, nearly unconscious for lack of air, before releasing her and drawing his wand. A swish later, he dis-Apparated from Hogwarts, possibly the first to do so since the now-shattered wards were first cast over a century ago.


	2. Held

14 June, 1998 cont.

A sharp crack echoed sharply through the small chamber which replaced the Great Hall Severus Snape and Hermione Granger had left behind at Hogwarts. The disconcerting whirl of their Apparation and sudden lurch as it stopped left Hermione swaying with dizziness, and the tight grip of Snape's arm around her waist pulled her off balance rather than supporting her. They both collapsed unceremoniously to the black marble floor, his long limbs interlaced with hers like driftwood thrown up on the beach.

Crouched on the floor, Hermione began to cough, gasping for air and trying not to think about how close she'd just come to dying. She could not tell if Snape's trembling was any worse than her own, but his hands were shaking as he disentangled himself from her body and wrenched at the silver mask over his face. The mask clattered to the floor, quickly followed by the distinctive black and gray Death Eater robes, flung off as though they were burning him. By the time Snape dragged himself to his feet and staggered towards a low ebony table to one side of the ornately carved door, Hermione managed to catch her breath.

She watched him pick up a silver hammer lying on the table and use it to ring a delicate round chime hanging from the ceiling. Glancing about the room and its elegant but muted decor, she guessed they were in the receiving room of a wizarding house. There were no windows, but alabaster and chalcedony lamps hung from ornate brackets on the tall walls, and the ceiling was vaulted with heavy beams carved along their dark lengths. Beyond the walls, the faint whistle of a heavy wind could just barely be made out, sounding like a lonely sigh.

Hermione knew from her reading that many pureblood wizards' homes were warded against Apparation as a basic security precaution, but one room was left unwarded so their guests would not be required to arrive on a chilly or rainy doorstep. She did not have time to wonder whose house this was; after waiting only a moment Snape bit out an impatient oath and placed his hand against the carved beast on the door. He whispered a short phrase, in words Hermione did not quite catch, and in moments the door gave a heavy set of clicks as the magical locks released. Snape dropped the silver hammer back onto the table with a negligence that revealed more about the man's mental state than anything he might or might not have said.

Inhaling deeply through his nose, as if confronted with a distasteful issue, the Potions Master pushed the door open before he quickly turned and reached down to pull Hermione to her feet. He said nothing as his long fingers dealt with the complicated knot between her wrists. Once the red and gold silk became loose, he left her to deal with the rest and passed through the entryway, clearly expecting her to follow.

Rubbing at the deep creases left in her skin, Hermione trailed after her teacher and stepped over the threshold into an expansive marble receiving room. A grand staircase curved up the far side of the oval room, its white steps and risers gilt with gold leaf and shining in the afternoon sun. Taking a second look, however, she noticed places where the gilt had been worn off and not replaced, and several of the spindles on the baluster were missing. The walls were patchy where bits of plaster had fallen off the keys, leaving strips of bare lathe behind. The floor, though spotless and polished, revealed the evidence of countless feet in pitted lanes that led through the doorways to either side of the entrance hall. In fact, the house gave the complete opposite impression of the Black Manor at Grimmauld Place. It was bright and airy and perfectly clean, but it gave the impression of a shabby gentility that had already slid, inexorably, into decay.

"Master! You is home!"

Both Hermione and her erstwhile captor turned at these words to see a house elf peering carefully around the door near the foot of the stairs.

"As you can see, Whitlock," Snape replied. "Where is Bitta?"

"Here, Master," came another voice, and Whitlock hopped to one side and allowed another house elf to emerge, this one older than any elf Hermione had yet seen. She was a relative of Whitlock, judging from her similarly long narrow ears, but her sour, sly expression reminded Hermione rather uncomfortably of the Black family's elf, Kreacher. The elf crept closer to Snape, the lace on her ratty pillowcase brushing the floor.

"Bitta, Whitlock, this is Miss Granger. She will be staying here for a few days. See that the eastern bedroom is prepared for her, and find her something to wear."

Whitlock bobbed eagerly, offering Hermione a shy smile. The older elf, however curled her lip slightly as she took in the girl's disheveled appearance. Suddenly self-conscious, Hermione pulled her school robes closed over her torn blouse.

Snape caught the movement and his famous scowl formed. "Miss Granger is one of my students, Bitta, and you will treat her as a guest."

"She's a Mudblood, Master. I can smell it. Your father…"

Snape cut her off coldly. "My father rots in hell, Bitta, and unless you wish to join him, I expect you to do as you're instructed."

"Yes, Master," the elf muttered, her wrinkled face falling into sullen lines. Without another word she snapped her fingers and disappeared.

"Go with Whitlock, Miss Granger," Snape ordered without really looking at her. "He'll see you to your room. I will be unavailable for several hours, and would appreciate you keeping your questions and yourself out of my way."

"Yes, sir," she whispered to his back as he turned on his heel and walked away. His usual billowing robes were missing, however, and his black frock coat was unable to disguise the droop of his narrow shoulders and the fatigue in his step.

Hermione followed the younger house elf up the once-grand staircase and along a hallway adorned with small paintings and a scuffed, faded carpet. The far end of the hall ended with a set of double doors which had been painted with a lovely mural, but Whitlock led her to a modest door at the opposite end. It opened onto an equally modest room with minimal decorations and impersonal if tastefully striped blue and white walls. A desk, bed, and bureau were the only furnishings other than a window seat below a single side window.

The older house elf Bitta was levitating several lumpy pillows into fresh pillowcases as the coverlet tucked itself under the thick mattress. "The bath is through there," she told Hermione in disgruntled tone that implied bathing would do little good.

Breathing deeply, Hermione fought off a wave of dizziness. In the last few hours her entire world had abruptly spun into a surreal nightmare. This morning her biggest concern was the prospect of taking her Transfiguration N.E.W.T. after only a few hours of sleep the night before. The first hint of any trouble had been the centaur Firenze barreling through the main doors of the school into the Great Hall, interrupting the exams with the announcement that Death Eaters had been sighted in the Forbidden Forest, headed towards the castle.

Her carefully prepared morning had dissolved into a frantic evacuation of the students, examination proctors and staff. While Harry and Ron had led the students through the labyrinth of caves below the school, Hermione had helped coordinate the student exodus. The shock of finding the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets closed as she brought in the stragglers had been like a physical blow.

Obviously both she and Dumbledore had over-estimated how long the wards would withstand an assault. Now that she had had a moment to think, Hermione could only guess that Harry had told the secret entrance to close once the first wards had fallen; she hated to think of his reaction when he realized he'd shut one of his best friends out of the evacuation.

For a brief moment tears threatened, and Hermione could feel her hands shaking in the aftermath of her encounter with Voldemort, but the scorn radiating from the wizened house elf making the bed sent a familiar jolt of outrage through her. She'd endured worse from Draco Malfoy with her self-respect intact. With a gulp of air, she steadied her breathing and hauled her crumbling equilibrium back under control.

"Thank you, Bitta," Hermione said firmly.

The elf's round eyes rolled as if being polite to a house elf was merely further evidence of Hermione's inferiority.

Ignoring her, Hermione cautiously investigated the smaller room. Ancient fixtures dominated the bath, including a large claw-footed bathtub. Judging by everything she'd seen so far, it was very likely the tub was the most modern appliance in the house.

Feeling suddenly grimy, Hermione looked at the spigots but could find no handles or other controls. "How do you start the water?" she asked the attentive Whitlock.

"Miss has only to tap the spout with her wand," responded the elf in a helpful voice.

"Wonderful," Hermione replied, remembering she had turned her wand over to Snape. "Unfortunately, I don't happen to have my wand handy. Would you please run me a bath?"

Whitlock goggled at her. "Pl-please?" he stuttered. "Miss said 'please' to Whitlock?"

"Yes, I did, and most likely will again," she retorted.

The elf goggled at her, speechless, until Hermione mentioned the bath again. Squeaking apologies, Whitlock started the water and disappeared, promising to find a cake of soap.

Hoping he'd find something other than whatever it was Snape used on his hair, Hermione quickly shed her school uniform and climbed into the tub. For several long minutes she lay back in the hot water, worrying about the students, teachers, and other staff at Hogwarts, especially the stragglers she'd sent through the tunnels to Hogsmeade. Harry and Ron also figured largely in her apprehension, but not as sharply. The boys had been following the well-planned evacuation orders, and Dumbledore was supposed to have gone with them as well. She knew Harry had spent some time exploring the caverns and had found one branch of the caves that eventually led to the docking cavern under the castle. The students would be in Hogsmeade by now; surely Hogwarts was swarming with Aurors at this very moment and the children all safely on their way to their homes.

It was not until something materialized in mid-air before her and splashed into the water, startling a muffled shriek out of her, that Hermione realized she really ought to be more concerned with her own situation. The water had stopped flowing and the something, when she fished it out of the water, proved to be a cake of white soap. Judging by the faint perfume that it gave off, it had once been a very quality product, but age had turned it powdery and the block cracked like shale rock when she attempted to create some lather. Still, it did the job.

Washing quickly, Hermione turned her attention to her current circumstances. With any luck, Snape would reappear in the next few hours, summarily order her out of his house, and turn her over to Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix. If all went well, she could be having breakfast with Harry and Ron at Twelve Grimmauld Place in the morning.

Focusing on that happy thought, Hermione rubbed herself dry and put on the threadbare bathrobe that had materialized next to the tub. House elf liberation was all well and good, she thought, but she had to admit that one could appreciate the convenience of having all your needs met.

In the bedroom, she found a set of robes draped across the bed. The fabric again was excellent quality, but the musty smell of long storage had not been conquered by the freshening charm that had been applied. Beneath the robes lay a sleeveless shift and another garment that she eventually puzzled out to be a short corset. Sure enough, when she went pattered back to the bath, her clothing had disappeared – including her underthings.

"Whitlock?" she called out. "Where are my clothes?"

It was Bitta's sour voice who answered as the elf appeared near the foot of the bed. "Master said we is to find you clothes to wear."

"Yes, but he didn't say you should take the old ones," Hermione argued.

The old elf's face crinkled impatiently. "They is dirty, and torn."

"They're only missing a few buttons."

"Master didn't say nothing about mending buttons."

"I will wear these robes, Bitta, but when I leave – which should be very soon – I'm going to want my own clothes back. I would appreciate it if you could put the buttons back on." Since she was supposed to graduate in just a week, Hermione wasn't entirely sure she'd ever need her uniform again, but she wasn't going to let a creature wearing a pillowcase tell her what she could and could not wear.

The elf disappeared again, leaving Hermione unsure if she'd won that round or not. With some fumbling, she managed to get the corset fastened over the shift and her breasts relatively comfortable in the garment. The simple robe that went over the top of that brushed the tops of her feet and fit close enough to her body that she decided not to worry too much about the lack of knickers.

A yellow ivory comb allowed her to untangle her damp hair, eventually. She wrestled it into a long plait and fastened the end with a piece of ribbon she found on the bureau near the comb. Over it, a small mirror reflected her features back to her; dark eyes in a pale oval, surrounded by corkscrew tendrils that were already escaping the plait. The neckline of the robe was not high enough to cover the red mark over her windpipe where Snape's long thumb had cut off her breathing.

Pulling aside the fabric, Hermione inspected the oval of mottled bruising on the slope of her shoulder where Snape had bitten her. It was disturbing in ways that the bruise on her neck was not; while the violence inherent in both were proof of Severus Snape's role as something other than her teacher, the teeth marks added the disturbing reminder of exactly what kind of abuse she might have suffered if he had not claimed her as his prize.

The thought of falling into any Death Eater's power sent a shiver up her spine and, unwilling to examine that idea any longer, Hermione turned away and inspected her room once more. The broad window seat beckoned to her from across the room, and she settled onto the surprisingly comfortable cushions and brushed aside the curtains to look out over a wilderness.

Here and there a straight line hinted at a formal planned garden, but the roses were a rioting tangle of colors interspersed with patches of brown, dry and dead vegetation. She had to wrestle with the window latch, but the rusted hardware finally yielded and let in a rush of fresh air. The scents carried in were green and lush and wild, and she closed her eyes as she breathed in the sweet clean promise of freedom. By craning her neck, Hermione could see that the wall of brick and ornamental iron behind the flowers and overgrown trees extended all the way around the edge of the house, presumably enclosing the entire garden.

She didn't remember dozing off, but the 'pop' of a house elf appearing startled her awake. The garden was full of long shadows now, the sunlight a bare glimmer along the tall wall as the sun set on the opposite side of the house. When Hermione turned around, Bitta was levitating a small tray onto the end of the bed. The smell of soup and the sight of the food made Hermione's stomach growl in sudden anticipation.

The elf made no objection when Hermione started in on the food, ignored Hermione's thanks and stood with her wiry little arms crossed, waiting impatiently for her to finish eating. Hermione gave the elf a sidelong glance and deliberately slowed down.

"Have you always served the Snape family?" she asked innocently. In her experience, house elves were always glad to boast of how long they'd been enslaved to one family, but Bitta shrugged and didn't answer.

"Is Professor Snape here?" she tried again, only to be told that Snape had gone out of the house. Bitta didn't know where to, or when he was to return, or what his errand was and her attitude let Hermione know she has no right to know either.

Hermione finished her dinner and let the elf take away the tray without getting any tangible scraps of information from her. On a sudden impulse she checked the door, and was not entirely surprised to find the door was locked from the outside. Faced with no other alternative, she changed into the nightgown Bitta had left for her and climbed into the high, old-fashioned bed, feeling a bit like a heroine in a bad gothic novel. Snape was hardly Rochester, however, and she had no intention of playing Jane Eyre.

Though she made a mental note to check the attic if she had to stay here any longer than a day or so.


	3. Caged

16 June, 1998

Bright sunlight came lancing through the windows at an obscenely early hour, rousing Hermione from a hard sleep that had been long in coming. Anxiety and a rampant imagination, along with the unfamiliar bed and her unexpected nap, had kept her from dozing off for hours the night before. When she had slept, her dreams had been full of vague dark figures, snarling at each other like dogs over a bone and reaching for her with menacing intention.

With a groan Hermione burrowed under the covers and pulled the pillow over her head to block out the light, but that was hardly a better option; the blankets were musty and the lumpy pillow was threatening to smother her if she didn't immediately emerge from her rumpled refuge. Surrendering to the inevitable, she struggled upright and gave the window a bleary, disgusted look. Too late, she remembered that Professor Snape had specified this as the eastern bedroom.

The Snape Manor was apparently not set on a straight compass line but rather at an angle, one which allowed the rising sun to come straight in the window with an unfeeling efficiency. Slightly more awake, she realized the drapes were pale and sheer, completely unequal to the strong light. A heavy curtain rod showed where thicker drapes had once hung, but those had evidently rotted off their holders in the past, leaving behind only the vine-chased silver rings, black with tarnish, and twisted wisps of dark fabric.

Somehow it seemed to be more trouble to go back to sleep than to get up, and her when her physical needs that began to make themselves known, Hermione reluctantly slid from the bed and put her feet on the woolen rug. It felt nice under her toes, but it didn't stretch into the cool bathroom where she used the tall commode and pulled the chain, grateful that the Snape manor had at least that level of innovation.

Once she washed her face in the bowl of tepid water and cleared her sleep-fogged mind, Hermione remembered that she might be on her way to the Black house today. Cheered by that thought, she brushed her teeth with the corner of the towel and did what she could for her hair, mourning the lack of proper bath products as the dry ends crackled around the comb. Just as she finished a faint pop from the bedroom let her know an elf had appeared.

She returned to find Bitta floating a breakfast tray onto the end of the bed. The plate carried only toast and some cut fruit, but the toast smelled wonderfully fresh and appeared to have been cut from a loaf of handmade bread.

Giving the elf a thank-you through a mouthful of the toast, Hermione asked her if Professor Snape was awake yet.

"Can't say," Bitta replied with a sniff. "The master ain't here."

"Not here? Didn't he come back last night?"

Bitta's long ears flapped slightly as she shook her head, but she did not take her attention from the robes in her arms as she laid them over the chair. The robes were the same ones Hermione had worn for several hours the night before, but appeared to have been laundered overnight. Best of all, a pair of old fashioned draw-string knickers were included.

"I don't suppose you know when he'll be home," Hermione ventured, and got a shrug in return. "Fine. I'll wait. Does Professor Snape take the Daily Prophet? I'd like to read it."

"Don't get the paper."

"Floo?" Hermione asked, dreading the answer.

"Been off the Floo network since the old Master died."

"Fine." Hermione found her innate sympathy for house elves evaporating by the moment even as a serious dislike for the old Master began to develop. "Then I'd like to be let out of this room. There's no reason for me to be locked in."

"The old Master had standing orders…"

"Does your current Master have standing orders?" Hermione interrupted. "I'm fairly certain he said I was a guest, not a prisoner."

Narrowing her eyes at Hermione, Bitta made several grumbling, unhappy noises before telling her that Whitlock would escort her around the house after she was done with her breakfast. And keep her out of things she shouldn't be in, was the unspoken message.

With the silent, efficient tact of house elves everywhere, the door to Hermione's room creaked open just as Hermione had finished dressing.

"Is Miss wanting Whitlock?" the younger elf asked, and Hermione shot him a welcoming smile.

"Yes, please. I wanted to look around today, Whitlock. Would you mind showing me the house?"

Whitlock gulped, and Hermione hastened to reassure him. "Don't worry, I promise not to get into anything I shouldn't."

Of course, it was her definition of what was 'shouldn't' and what was not. A very Slytherin way of looking at her promise, she knew, but if any situation qualified for a 'when in Rome, do as the Romans do' mentality, this was certainly one of them. "Shall we?"

Whitlock trailed behind Hermione as she retraced her way back to the reception room. It was just as lovely as it had been the afternoon before, if just as sad considering the disrepair. The far wall was almost entirely composed of windows, with two French doors flanking the heavy framed doorway of the Apparation room.

Looking out those windows, Hermione could see that the Apparation room outside the house wards stuck out like a wart on a witch's face, but the rest of the area was an overgrown grassy expanse. Along the edge she could make out the same brick and wrought iron fence that enclosed the garden behind the house, and on this side enclosing what was once a fine lawn and the tree-filled acreage beyond. Had it been maintained, the lawn would have given the illusion of rolling down to the trees in the distance, but at one corner the ha-ha wall had collapsed, creating a trough of erosion that threatened the integrity of the rest of the wall. She could just imagine the badgers and other wildlife following that path up into the overgrown lawn, digging into the bowling lanes and toppled statuary.

The doorway leading the off the near side beckoned Hermione away from the windows to follow the pitted marble through it and down a short hallway. The wide door facing her was rather plain, but the doorknob was a stylized open book, thick and square with brass pages.

"Is Miss allowed in the library?" Whitlock fretted.

"If your Master forbids me, Whitlock, I'll stay out," Hermione assured him, eagerly reaching for the book doorknob.

The anticipation Hermione felt on opening that door came down in crashing disappointment when she saw the room beyond. The shelves were nearly bare, carrying only a few hundred volumes, and even from where she stood Hermione could see they were cheap, thin novels, most likely from the early nineteen hundreds. Mustering faint hope she looked over the volumes, but her first impression was proved correct. Here and there was a dry treatise on manners or the training of house elves, but the overwhelming majority were the sort of book Hermione would rather clean cauldrons than read. The only book that elicited faint interest was an ancient atlas, but closer inspection showed it dealt mainly with the then far-flung British colonies with the countries therein listed by names that hadn't been accurate for a century.

She did discover a shelf that carried a few books on magic, but those all seemed to be basic primers of charms and elementary transfiguration. One set she unearthed was devoted entirely to domestic spells, such as removing household pests. They struck Hermione as a rudimentary version of the sort of tripe Gilderoy Lockhart published.

Disappointed, Hermione left the paltry library behind and began to investigate the other rooms on this wing of the house. She found two small rooms, both designated for unknown function and completely devoid of furniture, and then a larger room, quite obviously an office. The house elves were obviously forbidden to clean here. Ledgers and other paraphernalia lay on a worm-scarred desk, and the whole was littered with pieces of parchment. More parchment scraps were stuck at odd angles in the dust-covered account book that lay open on the desk. The papers Hermione could read through the dust, along with the one she plucked from the ledger book, were all bills and demands for past-due accounts. The deadline for payment, however, was a date that had come and gone well before Hermione had ever been born.

"We is not to be in here," Whitlock told her anxiously. "This was the old Master's office. Nobody was to disturb nothing. Most severe punishings for any elves caught cleaning in here." The nervousness in the little house elf's voice was momentarily taken over by disapproval.

Keeping her lips closed over a tart comment, Hermione left the office behind and let Whitlock escort her back into the reception room. The other side of the house appeared to be for social entertaining, and she soon felt a bit lost as she made her way through the complex of rooms. She found a huge ballroom, a dining room with a table big enough to seat every relative Hermione could claim, and a smaller though still impressive breakfast room.

Just off the dining room was a formal salon where women would retreat after dinner while the men shared brandy and cigars. It was charmingly decorated and still graced by the antique furniture that must have been chosen by a predecessor in the Snape line. Hermione could easily imagine a throng of well-dressed guests retiring here after a meal to gracefully lounge about and exchange the latest gossip with each other. The chaises and chairs were all well cared for and dust-free, like the rest of the house, but again nothing looked as though it had seen any use for years, even decades.

The room was presided over by a huge portrait, the only one Hermione had seen in the house so far. The subject was a tall, narrow woman with Snape's black hair swept up into an elaborate coil, a fine frosting of white at the temples giving away her age. She shared her gilt frame with a dog that stood beside the woman's chair. The dog was from an aristocratic breed, tall and sleek with feathering hair at ears and legs and a long tapered head. The collar around that silky neck was made of thick square links glittering with semi-precious stones and gold accents, the short chain held loosely in the woman's long-fingered hand. Hermione was not entirely sure the portrait was a wizard's painting until the dog abruptly listed to the side and began to scratch energetically at one ear. Diverted, the woman petted her companion for a moment and received a slavish licking on her hand before she returned to staring down her long nose at Hermione.

"Who is she?" she whispered to Whitlock.

The elf twisted one of his ears uneasily before admitting that the woman was Lady Snape, the wife of the current master's grandfather. Hermione waited, but the woman did not address her and she had no desire to start up a conversation; the abuse spewed forth by the portrait of Mrs. Black at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place left her leery of starting a conversation with the haughty subject of this portrait.

Making her way back to the breakfast room, Hermione was pleased to see a glass door leading out the back of the house. A large patio of interlocking stone lay just outside the door, and then gave way to the neglected garden she'd seen from her bedroom window. The lever handle on the door, however, refused to turn no matter how hard she wrenched at it and she was forced to concede defeat.

Whitlock didn't answer when she commented about the door being rusted shut, but followed when Hermione headed for the receiving room and the French door that let out over the lawn. This door, too, refused to open despite her efforts.

A horrid feeling began to grow in her stomach, one that grew when she glanced at Whitlock. The elf was twisting his ear and avoiding her gaze. The other pair of doors also seemed welded shut at the latch, as did the casement windows she flew at, trying desperately to open them.

"Why won't these open?" Hermione demanded.

The elf cringed, now twisting both ears. "They is locked. Wizard locked."

"Did your master put a locking spell on these doors? Did he say I was to be kept a prisoner here?" Despite trying to keep her voice even, her sharp tone made Whitlock drop to his knees on the marble floor.

"The old Master," Whitlock clarified with a whimper. "He put the locks on all the doors and windows. He cast those when he first brought the new Mistress to this house."

The hot anger building in Hermione was doused by the cold realization of just what that sort of ward indicated about the old Master. Harry Potter had never elaborated on what he'd seen in Professor Snape's pensive when the Potions Master had refused to give him any more lessons in Occlumency, but the few tidbits of information he had revealed had led Ron and Hermione to speculate that Snape's father must have been a right bastard. It appeared that they had underestimated that by a large margin.

Gathering her self-control, Hermione managed to reassure Whitlock and get him back on his feet. Lacking anything better, she talked the house elf into following her back to the library. Actually, it required very little convincing; Whitlock was more than happy to serve in any capacity, even if it were only carrying a stack of books back up to Hermione's room.

Deliberately casual as she sorted through her haul, Hermione kept Whitlock diverted with small tasks and comments about her schoolwork and family while she slid in questions of her own. She learned that the gardens had been tended by Whitlock's uncle, Bitta's son, until his death three or four years ago. The Master, the current one Hermione surmised, had not cared what happened to the garden and had ordered Bitta and Whitlock to ignore the outside of the house.

Other tidbits dropped by the house elf included the fact that Professor Snape had not returned to his family home more than once or twice a year since inheriting the house, apparently just to see if the elves had dropped dead in his absence. He had refused to allow the elves to buy anything other than basic necessities such as food and, of course, cleaning supplies. Nothing that broke was replaced; if elven magic could not Reparo it then it was disposed of without remorse or sentimental consideration.

Eventually Hermione ran out of both inconsequential chatter and invented chores for Whitlock and dismissed him with a grateful 'thank you.'

"Miss said – Miss said thank you to Whitlock?" stuttered the house elf.

Hermione was beginning to wonder how long it would be until Whitlock's ear actually separated from his head. "Yes, I did. I say thank you, and please, no matter who I'm talking to," she explained.

"Even house elves?"

"Especially house elves, Whitlock. If someone helps me out, they do it out of choice. House elves don't really have a choice, do they?"

"No," he answered absently, then realizing his words turned a green several shades paler than usual and began banging his head on the bedpost shrieking "Bad Whitlock! Bad Whitlock!"

"You're not bad!" Hermione dropped to her knees and tried her best to restrain the hysterical elf. "All you've done is admit you're a house elf! How can that be something that deserves punishment?"

"Not bad?" Whitlock's reedy voice was muffled under his hands.

"No, you're not bad. You're a slave, Whitlock. And I don't believe in house elf slavery. I'd free every house elf if I could."

This declaration sent Whitlock into another gibbering spasm of ear-twisting and he was completely incoherent until he loosened one ear long enough to snap his fingers and disappear. Hermione was left kneeling, staring at the hard wooden floor, and wondering just how annoyed Snape would be for driving one of his house elves off his nut – and in only one morning.

The remainder of the day was spent flipping idly through the novels and other books she'd purloined from the library and eating the plain meals provided to her by Bitta. The older elf grumbled mightily and was heard to make at least one comment about witches who ought to be ashamed of themselves for talking nonsense to house elves, but she didn't stay any longer than it took Hermione to eat her food and then leave again. Hermione could have sworn the elf was counting the silverware after each meal, just to be sure.

Much to Hermione's horror, the next day passed nearly exactly the same. Only the intensity changed – Bitta grumped, Whitlock edged around corners, and Hermione gave up all thoughts of tact as she made her way around the interior of the house. Further exploration led her to a rudimentary potions lab below the kitchens, not far from the spiraling staircase that had led down to the wine cellar. The wine cellar was locked, but the lab was accessible through a thick door which creaked theatrically when Hermione forced it open.

Apparently another room the elves were forbidden to clean, the entirety of the laboratory was covered in thick dust, including all the supplies in the short cabinet. A pile of rusty cauldrons lurked in the corner. Some of the bottles and tins had burst over the years, but nothing worse had occurred. The entire set-up seems to be on par with a teenager's scholastic pursuits rather than a professional Potion Master's domain.

Considering the conditions in the rest of the house, it was obvious Snape hadn't spent any significant time here in years, probably not since he'd received his letter to Hogwarts. It was an odd thought for Hermione, considering Snape as a child. She tried to envision a small, black-haired boy racing down the steps, but could only conjure the image of a miniature version of her Potions Master, complete with a scowl and swishing robes.

19 June, 1998

On the third full day of her incarceration, Hermione took up pacing in the receiving room, glaring out the windows at intervals and stifling the urge to start throwing things to see if she could break the glass. As it was, the growing fear of being locked forever in this ramshackle house with two elves was enough to make her remember every swear word she'd ever heard from Harry and Ron. The absent Professor Snape was almost exclusively the subject of these muttered tirades, though Bitta and her grumbling received their fair share of dire snarls.

20 June, 1998

On her fourth morning at Snape Manor, Hermione lay in bed and wondered how long it would be before she actually _became_ the lunatic locked in the attic. There was a vacancy – she knew this because she'd found the attic access the day before. Shrouded furniture, piles of unidentified junk, and a thick coat of dust filled it from one end to the other, but plenty of room existed to build a small fort out of the various trunks and boxes. She was musing the problem of adequate plumbing when a small 'pop' sounded in the room and a tray settled on the foot of her bed.

"Miss should was her face," announced Bitta, magic sparking from her fingertip to the wash basin, which began to steam gently.

"I took a bath last night," Hermione answered absently, pulling morosely at the frizzy ends of her hair. The disintegrating, ancient soap was doing it no good at all.

A fresh set of robes appeared on the end of the bed, but Hermione only stared at them dispassionately and made no effort to reach for them.

"Miss would do well to wash behind her ears," Bitta commented sharply. "Wouldn't want the Master to think we hadn't taken care of you."

"WHAT?" Hermione sat bolt upright. "Professor Snape is here? When did he arrive? Has he been here all night?"

Bitta smirked at all of Hermione's questions, but simply shrugged instead of answering and disappeared with a snap of her fingers.

Abandoning the toast, Hermione washed and dressed in record time, twisting her hair into a rough plait and clattering down the stairs without regard to her own safety. Snape had always been an early riser at Hogwarts, and she could just imagine him sitting at the massive dining room table and totting up the points he'd taken off for her tardiness.

The dining room was empty, however, as was the smaller breakfast room. Hermione stared at the empty table for several long moments before taking up the search. The salon off the dining room held only the impressive woman in her portrait. Storming straight through, Hermione flung open the door to the billiard room next door.

This was obviously a man's retreat, complete with a billiards table and a long leather chaise. Most of the furnishings were indistinct blurs in the darkened room, save the end of the chaise where the light fell across two long, dark legs sprawled out in boneless abandon, ending with one scuffed shoe and one narrow, sock-clad foot.

As her eyes adjusted, Hermione began to pick out more details such as Snape's mouth hanging open, fortunately emitting only a heavy breathing rather than eardrum-rattling snores, and an empty cognac bottle on the floor, overturned, next to a balloon snifter. Most of her Potions Master was covered by his own frock coat, pulled up under a chin that hadn't seen a razor for several days.

"Lovely," she said, disgusted.

The light snoring continued without the smallest change in rhythm, though Hermione was not about to test whether his legendary internal radar would notice another body near his if she came any closer.

Leaving the door open behind her, Hermione went out of the billiard room and through a small butler's pantry to the kitchens. Sure enough she found Bitta working at a knee-high table, kneading a lump of bread dough and surrounded by the meager ingredients intended for lunch.

Hermione paused at the top of the stairs leading down to the primitive potions lab. "Bitta, would you please fix a pot of coffee, two soft-boiled eggs, and some toast?"

"You've already had your breakfast," the elf informed her.

"It's not for me. It's for Professor Snape."

"He won't eat it," Bitta predicted.

"He will," Hermione promised the elf grimly.

A great many of the supplies in the potions lab were past stale and well on their way to petrifaction, but eventually Hermione gleaned a Hangover Potion from those ingredients that had still been sealed. It smelled absolutely vile, but she was confident the blue-gray liquid would efficiently deal with all but the most tenacious hangovers.

And to be honest, she didn't care whether or not Professor Snape objected to the taste. Whether he drank it or choked on it made no difference to her.

Author's note:

A ha-ha wall was a retaining wall that raised the level of a lawn above the surrounding countryside. From one side it would appear as though the lawn rolled seamlessly into the distance, but from the other side the raised wall would prevent livestock from wandering onto the lawn and leaving behind nasty surprises.


	4. Détente

20 June, 1998 cont.

Severus Snape was rather partial to dramatic entrances, and of the reactions he got from them. It gave him immense satisfaction to catch misbehaving students in the act and watch them squirm; to make snogging couples leap apart as though struck by lightening; to watch all the miscreants and idiots lose their concentration and power of speech when he burst upon the scene with his trademark energy and intensity. Such an entrance let the sheep know a predator was among them. It made them nervous, and automatically put them on the defensive. It made them cower. It made them afraid, and as he knew all too intimately, a man who was afraid was a man who could be controlled.

The young woman seated at his massive dining room table was not afraid, however. Her attitude was more one of supreme indifference as he leaned against the doorjamb, one hand clutching the wood frame for stability, the other uncertain if it should be clutching at his aching head or better employed fending off the light coming in the windows at the far end of the room.

"Bitta," the wench called. "He's up. Coffee and his breakfast, please." The book in her hands created a faint but highly irritating scritch as she turned the page.

He wasn't sure which was more appalling; the taste in his mouth or the sight of his house elf bringing in a plate with two egg cups and toast - on demand, no less. The coffeepot that levitated along behind was a much more welcome sight.

For some reason his feet seemed to have grown several sizes larger than normal and were not inclined to cooperate as Severus shuffled across the carpet to fetch up against the nearest chair. It took three tries to get the thing pulled out far enough to sit down.

"Drink this first," his unwelcome guest ordered, and slid a tall, thin glass across the table towards his plate. Her gaze remained fixed on the book in her hands, and she seemed indifferent as to whether or not he drank her offering.

The potion was beyond unspeakable, but his brain managed to recognize a variant on standard hangover potions despite the awful taste. It occurred to him that she could have used that opportunity to poison him, but considering the current state of his head, he wasn't entirely sure that wasn't a preferable option. Severus attempted to make a face at the taste, but his features were already so twisted against the hangover that there was no marked change.

Across the table, Hermione Granger turned another page and seemed to be completely absorbed in her book. The cover was at an angle to him, but even if it had been under his nose Severus wouldn't have given a bent Knut for his chances of reading it before he'd gotten on the outside of a at least one cup of coffee. It might even take an entire pot to make him lucid. Fortunately Bitta had poured a cup before disappearing back into the kitchen, which saved him the humiliation of attempting that task himself. Lowering his head toward the brim, he managed, just, to get the first sip in his mouth rather than down his front.

Liquid gold, hot and black, strong enough to curl nose hair. Just the way he liked it. Another sip, then another, and the jolt of caffeine joined the potion he'd just drunk. There was a minor altercation and an ominous queasiness while the two liquids came together. After a few anxious moments his stomach decided to behave itself, easing the fear that he might just cast his accounts all over the floor and put Miss Granger to the task of brewing another of her vile creations.

By the time he'd finished the first cup and poured another with markedly improved coordination, Severus Snape was aware of the universe coming back into focus. Smaller details were becoming clear, such as the fact that he was missing a shoe, though he still retained both socks. His hair, by no means acceptable even on a good day, was revolting even to himself, and he needed a shave and a shower desperately. He was also becoming increasingly conscious that he was sitting across the table from an incredibly brassed-off witch.

Turning the pages steadily, never taking her eyes from the print, he was nonetheless fully aware of the simmering tension under the silence Hermione maintained. The uneasy feeling that gave him was not a sensation to which he was accustomed – the role of making others uncomfortable had always been his.

Deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, Severus seized a piece of toast and forced half of it in his mouth, dry, followed by more coffee. The eggs sat innocently on their cups, but his stomach demanded payment for its previous good behavior and rumbled ominously. Before he knew it, both eggs were gone and nothing remained of the toast but crumbs.

The last of the coffee swirled in the bottom of the cup, grounds and all, as Severus drank it down and wiped his mouth with the crumpled linen napkin beside his plate. Thus fortified, he addressed his companion for the first time in nearly four days.

"Whatever it is you have to say, Miss Granger, you might as well say it now. I know better than to hope you'll hold your tongue."

Hermione Granger's brown eyes rose to meet his, and Severus Snape realized he'd been wrong. She wasn't just brassed off. She was furious.

&&&&&

Carefully closing her book and placing it on the table, Hermione refrained from her first instinct to fling it at Snape's creased, stubble-covered face.

"I would like to know," she began in a very even voice, "where you have been, and why you felt it necessary to leave me locked up here for the last four days."

Snape appeared unimpressed by the emphasis that had crept into the last few words, despite her best efforts, and Hermione was once again forced to stomp on the desire to give in to her desires and shout at the man with all the frustration of the last week.

Since she'd first heard the groaning and the sound of a heavy body rolling off the chaise that signaled he was awake, her temper had been a steady undertow, growing stronger and stronger. The temptation to hex him with something truly creative had only been stymied by her innate respect for her teachers, not to mention the fact that he still had her wand.

The disheveled man who finally appeared bore little resemblance to Hogwart's formerly illustrious Potions Master, and she felt no remorse when she hoped his hangover was every bit as bad as it seemed. For a moment she even regretted the work she'd put into making the hangover potion. That, along with the breakfast he'd just inhaled, was apparently having the intended effect and now Snape was regaining the aura of the nasty professor she'd endured for the last seven years.

"It's none of your business where I've been, Miss Granger, and I left you locked up here as it was the safest place to stash you until I found someone willing to take your annoying self off my hands. Unfortunately your reputation precedes you and I was unsuccessful."

A moment passed while Hermione weeded fact from insult. "You mean you've been unable to locate anyone within the Order?" she asked sharply. "Why didn't you go to Number Twelve…"

"Twelve Grimmauld Place has been compromised," he cut her off sharply. "The Black family home is no longer the headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix."

He nodded, taking grim satisfaction at her shock. "The house was breached by Death Eaters the evening following their attack on Hogwarts. Narcissa Malfoy apparently convinced a member of the Wizengamot to sign the house over to her last week. Nymphadora Tonks has no legal claim, since her mother was disowned for marrying a Muggle. Narcissa is the last living member of the Black family, or at least the last member who isn't wanted by the Ministry, and the Fidelus charm cannot be maintained against the legal owner's claim to a property."

"Was anyone hurt?" Hermione asked in a horrified voice. "Is everyone all right?" Another thought blurted out before Snape had a chance to answer. "What about all the things we'd left there? There's no telling what kind of information they can find out if someone halfway intelligent looks through our belongings!"

Severus waved a careless hand. "It didn't matter – everything to do with the Order had already been removed, and all traces of Order activity had been removed. Dumbledore must have had a warning from some other source," he added as the thought occurred to him. "I was given to understand Narcissa wasn't at all pleased. She rewarded Kreatcher's loyalty by putting his head on the wall next to his kin."

"Then where has everyone gone?" she demanded, exasperated. "Is there a new headquarters?"

"Yes, that is the question, isn't it?" he answered snidely. "If only the answer were as obvious. I've no doubt that your friends are fine, in as much as my Death Eater compatriots have not been able to locate them. Albus is with them and that old bastard is sly enough to teach a fox new tricks."

Hermione blinked. Had Professor Severus Snape just called the Headmaster 'old bastard?' "So what do we do now?"

"We?" he sneered. "I am going to my rooms. You may do whatever you like, as long as you say out of my way."

"I've been out of your way for days, Professor," she answered back in the same tone. "Now I'd like some answers."

"No more than I," he replied. "Unfortunately, they seem to be in short supply. Until the Headmaster sees fit to communicate with me, I'm as much in the dark as you are, if that were possible."

"Then when, exactly, can I expect to leave this house?" she asked bluntly.

"That isn't possible. I can't turn you over to the Order if I can't find them, and I would be disastrous to send you home to your parents. I'm sure Lucius and Draco Malfoy would offer you a place to stay but I doubt you'd prefer their hospitality to mine."

Hermione did not quite blanch but his words were an uncomfortable reminder of her encounter with Voldemort and of why she was at this house in the first place; Snape was purported to be her abductor and abuser. Going to her parents' home was out of the question; they were Muggles and totally vulnerable, and she'd certainly be even less informed of events than she currently was.

"So," she concluded tartly, "that means I'm stuck here."

"Indubitably," he drawled.

"I want to go outside then," Hermione told him in no uncertain terms, ignoring his sarcasm. "I've been in this house for far too long. It's making me go insane."

"Then by all means, do so."

"All the doors and windows are magically sealed," she retorted evenly. She had no way of knowing if he were aware of the situation, but she wasn't in any mood to give him the benefit of the doubt. "I've heard of wards to keep people out, Professor, but I thought only prisons kept people in."

An odd expression flickered behind his fathomless black eyes before he answered. "The password is 'manumittere,'1 Miss Granger. The property itself, however, is still warded. Don't bother trying to go over the wall."

Hermione nodded stiffly in thanks and rose from the table, leaving her book behind. Now that he could see properly, he could recognize it as one of the inane volumes on house management his father had presented to his mother on numerous occasions.

&&&&&

"Manumittere."

The doorframe shimmered briefly, outlining the panes of glass in the French doors, before a click signaled the lock's release. With a touch of trepidation, Hermione pushed the door open. A waft of fresh air came in, cool and moist and all but intoxicating after four days of captivity. Eagerly she pushed it open and ventured out onto the small terrace just outside the doors.

Like all good English country homes it was surrounded by a short, decorative stone balustrade, or at least it had been. In several places the mortar had crumbled, leaving dips in the railing and a scattering of dust and fist-sized rubble piled against the remaining wall. Just beyond a small terrace, an inlaid path, now a bedraggled and moss-covered meander of stones, led out into a wild, enticing tangle of green.

The first branching off the path led to a kitchen garden, which was nothing more than a flat mat of weeds and fallen leaves. The path circled slightly, past an herb patch that still held the faint impression of an intricate knot pattern, then dove through a formal flower garden. Hermione had to jump over several large tangles of roses gone wild, their runners forming snarls that spilled over the path and snagged her skirts despite her attempt to hold them up and out of the reach of the multitude of thorns.

Somewhere at the heart of the wild tangle of roses, she thought she caught a glimpse of bright white. Peering on tiptoe, it appeared to be an outstretched woman's hand, carved of marble, though it was hard to discern through the briars.

"Wonderful," Hermione mused aloud. "We've moved from Jane Austen to the Brothers Grimm. Are you Briar Rose or Sleeping Beauty?" she asked whimsically. The statue did not answer, not that it would have surprised her either way.

Despite the difficulty of making her way through the gardens, Hermione was exultant. She had forgotten how blue the sky could be, bright and graced with a few fat clouds that streaked thin at the edges, and the birdsong was better than a symphony. The air was delicious, the mid-morning breezes carrying a hint of the heat that could be anticipated later in the day. Momentarily dazzled by the sun, Hermione shaded her eyes with her hands while she took her bearings.

Past the overgrown roses was a cutting garden, mostly weeds now, although some genus of spring bulb had spread until the frost heaved stones of the path were nearly conquered by the onslaught of slender green shoots. Beyond that was the glint of glass.

The tiny greenhouse was stuck on the far end of one ell of the house, looking as out of place as fairy wings on the back of a blast-ended skrewt. The wrought iron and glass door was grime-covered, and Hermione decided to leave it alone for now in favor of more exploring. Just beyond the greenhouse loomed the great outer wall of the property, high and uncompromising. Someone had once trained fruit trees against it in the traditional espalier pattern, but the angular shapes were nearly lost in the riotous growth since then.

Between the wall and the path, however, several volunteer fruit trees had sprung up, presumably from windfalls. Some had died from lack of care, and there was evidence of storm damage on others. The rest were gamely spreading their branches and putting forth small, hard knobs that would, in time, become fruit. She wasn't enough of a gardener to tell what species the fruit would become, but the very rebellion of the trees against the impositions of the Snape household was enough to bring a smile to Hermione lips.

Some hours passed before the sun began to be bothersome, and in that time Hermione had circled the huge house and come back to the beginning. She had found the bowling lanes on the broad lawn, barely recognizable through weeds and grass that came up nearly to her waist. The far edges of the property were bordered again by the massive wall, though she did find a rudimentary gravel road leading into and out of the estate. The road was presided over by two huge iron gates, both of which were heavily warded and made the hair on the back of her neck stand up as she approached. Not that it mattered; the rust on the hinges and locks were so thick it would have required a full-grown troll to open them.

The cool dark of the house was actually a relief when Hermione made her way back inside. She found her book on the breakfast table where she'd left it, and a disgruntled Bitta flicking a duster across the samovar service set on the sidebar.

"Did Professor Snape leave again?" she asked sharply. An inner voice reminded her that house-elves should be treated as equals and not chattel. Another voice reminded her that Bitta was actively unpleasant and every bit as bad as the house elf Kreacher, who haunted the house at Twelve Grimmauld Place like a poltergeist in a teatowel loincloth.

"Master has gone to his chambers, and Miss is not to disturb him. Bitta will bring luncheon to Miss' rooms."

"Oh. Well. Thank you, Bitta." Hermione managed in civil tones, and retrieved her book on the way out of the room. As she expected, another plain meal awaited her when she returned to the blue and white room at the end of the hall. Although the large, empty dining room was hardly inviting, it was not outside the realm of possibility that Bitta didn't consider her worthy of taking her meals at the family table.

The fresh air and sun had worn her out more than she anticipated; she lay down on the bed to read her book and woke several hours later. The sound of running water from the bathroom reminded her of the long ramble she'd been on earlier, and the need to clean up.. Rubbing at her face with the heel of her hand, Hermione sat up and glanced around the room.

A bathrobe had been laid out on the foot of the bed, but another element in the room felt different. Her lunch dishes had been cleared, but that had nothing to do with the odd change in the house. After a moment it occurred to Hermione that the house no longer felt echoing and empty. As though it recognized its master, the mausoleum aura had been replaced with an almost comforting sense of presence. That thought immediately caused her to snort in an unladylike fashion; Severus Snape's presence caused many reactions, but comfort was not usually one of them.

Without a wand, it was difficult to tame her hair into some semblance of order. Hermione found some old hair pins on the bureau and used it to anchor her mass of hair up out of the way. Some of the fly-away ends were damp after she finished her quick wash, but she dared not wash it again so soon after her last bath. The lack of proper hair care products was making her already difficult to manage hair an absolute fright, and washing it with the ancient soap was drying it to a brittle mass.

Once out of the tub and dried off, Hermione pulled the robe around her and returned to the bedroom to find Bitta laying out a set of formal robes. Apparently, she was expected to eat dinner somewhere besides her bedroom tonight.

Giving up any real hope of cooperation from her hair, Hermione ruthlessly brushed it out and braided it into a single plait down her back. By the time she'd accomplished that, Bitta had moved into the bathroom, where the sound of water draining and the muttering was accompanied by muttered house elf complaints regarding the mess on the floor and soap cakes that stuck to the bottom of the tub. Hermione used this small window of privacy to struggle into the archaic undergarments on the bed, and she had managed to pull the sleeveless chemise over her head when Bitta returned.

"These are nice," Hermione temporized, holding up the dark blue robes. The two-layer formal gown seemed suitable for a witch in polite company, if a bit old-fashioned. It was hard to gauge witches' fashions, but it didn't appear to be less than twenty years out of date. "I've been meaning to ask you, Bitta. Where are these clothes coming from?"

Bitta's ears drooped, and her eyes flicked from side to side. "Some is from maids back when the Snape family had human servants," she admitted, almost cautiously. "This was… left behind, by one of the old master's young lady friends."

Hermione looked at the gown again. The fabric wasn't as fine a quality as the maid's outfits she'd been wearing, which had tended to be solidly woven and intended for hard wear; the weave on this garment was thinner and nearly a gauze. She shrugged; it didn't really matter. Putting it on, she was a bit taken aback at the design which seemed to be aiming for easy removal, but decided not to think about that too much as she settled the skirts around her legs and tied the tapes that held the garment closed at the back of her waist.

Tugging at the neckline proved futile, and with a growing sense of dread Hermione assessed the gown once more. Turning to the mirror, one look at her reflection caused the word 'cheap' came to mind, although it wasn't in reference to the dress itself. The bodice was cut to make the most of a woman's cleavage, and it did the job -- rather too well, in Hermione's opinion. Mother Nature hadn't been overtly generous in this department, but everything she'd been gifted with was on display.

"Bitta," she called, somewhat desperately. "You don't have a shawl or something I could add, do you?"

For once the look on the old elf's face was thoughtful rather than irritated, and with a snap of her fingers the bottom drawer snapped open, spitting out a long length of silk. Hermione sat obediently in the chair when Bitta pointed, and all but had her hands slapped out of the way as the house elf draped the complementary colored fabric across the front of Hermione's breasts. The scarf was fastened at the shoulders with a pair of small brass pins conjured from the air.

While she had the girl effectively subdued, the house elf made an impatient noise at the fuzzy plait hanging down Hermione's back. A few whooshes of house elf magic later, the plait had been transformed to a smooth, intricate knot at the nape of her neck.

Satisfied with the effect, Bitta shooed the girl out of her chair and then charmed the long scarf into a loose knot at the back of the girl's waist, allowing the trailing ends to just miss the floor. When Hermione surveyed the results, the gown had been transformed from upscale tart to nearly elegant.

"Thank you, Bitta. I don't think I could have faced the Professor with all my goods on display like that."

"Miss is welcome," answered the elf with an unmistakable chuckle, and disappeared before Hermione could gape at her in astonishment.

The gown had not come with shoes, so Hermione was forced to put her sensible brogans back on before she went down to dinner at the appointed time. Either Bitta or Whitlock had magicked away the mud and grass bits from her ramble through the grounds, so she didn't need to worry about leaving a trail on the carpets as she made her way to the chilly formal dining room.

The man who rose to his feet when she entered the room was a vast improvement over the one she'd spoken to earlier in the day. Indeed, she barely recognized him. The scholar's robe and frock coat had been replaced with a more formal wizard's attire, still in black of course, but somehow less forbidding than his usual austere look. Some time had obviously been devoted to personal hygiene and sleep. His expression was slightly sour, but his hair was clean and his high cheekbones held more color than his usual sallow complexion.

"Good evening," he greeted her.

"Good evening, Professor."

Without another word, he held a chair out for her, and after a moment's hesitation she allowed him to seat her at the dinner table. It wasn't a promising beginning, but Hermione smiled at him as he took the seat opposite hers, fortunately across the huge table rather than at the opposite end of its long length.

Determined to keep their exchange pleasant, Hermione took a stab at opening a conversation. "You look as though you're feeling much better than you did this morning, Professor."

Hermione had taken care to speak with absolute sincerity, and after a moment Snape appeared to take her words at face value.

"Thank you, Miss Granger."

The food began to appear at that moment, easing the awkward silence. The soup was excellent, and eating it gave her something to do with her hands. In between spoonfuls, she caught glimpses of the professor taking in the details of her gown. A faint frown appeared and disappeared, but he did not open his mouth for any reason other than to put sustenance in it.

The main course passed in the same fashion, and was nearly completed before Hermione found the courage to comment break the silence with a compliment on the food.

"Bitta is an adequate cook," was the only response Snape made.

"The wine is excellent, as well," she added, hoping to break the deadlock.

"Enjoy it while you can, Miss Granger. There are only a few bottles left." He put action to his own advice and drained the rest of his glass. The bottle stood nearby, and Hermione took it as an encouraging sign when, after refilling his own glass, he topped hers up as well.

"Professor, I wanted to apologize for this morning. It was unfair of me to be cross with you when you'd just woken up." This, at least, got a look from the man across the table. She pressed on before he could say anything. "It's just that – it was a bit of a shock to realize that I'm going to be imposing on your hospitality for longer than I have already."

Snape paused as he raised his wineglass again. "Please, Miss Granger. Consider yourself my guest." He took another long drink of his wine, and Hermione wondered if it had actually caused him physical pain to utter this nicety.

"Actually, sir, if we're going to be here for a while, I thought we ought to discuss a few things."

"There's nothing to discuss, Miss Granger. You'll remain here, out of sight and out of my way."

"But…"

"No 'buts,' Miss Granger. You may consider yourself my guest, but you will not begin poking your abnormally inquisitive nose into things that do not concern you. When I have a place to put you, you may be assured that I will take the first available opportunity to get you out from under my roof. But until then, you will continue to obey me as your professor and the only representative of your school authority. And," he added, "you will leave the house elves alone. They've been in the family for years and they don't need you terrorizing them with the idea of clothes."

"Fine," she retorted. "But I want to get a copy of the Daily Prophet for the past few days and see what kind of nonsense they've published about the attack on Hogwarts."

"That can be arranged."

"And I want my wand back."

"No," was the flat answer.

"What? Why not?"

His voice was matter-of-fact as he returned attention to his dinner "Your wand still has the monitoring spell from the Department of Underage Magic."

"And why is that a bad thing? I'm of age, and school is obviously out of session for the foreseeable future"

"As a Hogwarts student, your wand is registered with the Department for Underaged Magic. If it's used, the Ministry will know, but more importantly Mafalda Hopkirk's secretary will know."

His hands were deft on the cutlery, but Hermione noticed that he did not look up to meet her gaze. "Her husband is a Death Eater and has been giving information to Voldemort for years. She'll definitely take note of you using your wand when you're supposed to be… otherwise occupied."

His hesitation on the last two words reminded Hermione of why, allegedly, she was in Snape's house in the first place. She felt the sudden need to have a sip of wine herself.

"Can't you remove it?" she asked, after a fortifying gulp.

"It's a very complex spell, Miss Granger," Snape began in a more reasonable tone. "I promise you teenagers have been trying to break the spell for the better part of a century. If anyone could have discovered the secret I would have put serious money on the Weasley twins, but even they've let me down. When your class leaves Hogwarts, the Ministry is notified and you're removed from the roles of under-age witches and wizards."

An impatient noise escaped her before she thought to suppress it. "It smacks of far too much organization for the Ministry I know."

Snape snorted dryly. "Too right."

"Lovely," she muttered. "Not only am I trapped here, now I can't do any magic."

Snape sent her a quick glance.

"I had originally thought to wait a few days, Miss Granger, before I sent you to the Order. If the subject arose, my fellow Death Eaters would believe I'd killed you after..." his normally excellent vocabulary failed to come up with a proper euphemism, and he quickly continued. "But in three days of searching I failed to find any trace of Dumbledore or Remus Lupin. Additionally, the Dark Lord has taken an interest in you – he asked after you last night."

Hermione suppressed a shudder at the idea of Voldemort taking a personal interest in her. "Why?"

Black-clad shoulders rose and fell in a slight shrug. "It could be he knows you're a close friend of Potter's, though I wouldn't count on it. Normally he doesn't care what becomes of any Death Eater's victims, as long as they're dead or otherwise unable to testify."

This time, Hermione did shudder as she remembered Frank and Alice Longbottom, both insane after being Crucio'ed past the limits of their endurance.

"The Dark Lord specifically ordered me not to kill you, Miss Granger. Sooner or later he will check to see that I've obeyed him. Which means I cannot allow you to simply disappear. I will need to devise a more elaborate excuse to explain why you are no longer in this house."

"I don't suppose he'd believe I just escaped, do you?"

"Doubtful, but you're welcome to try. Do you have any idea where we are? This house is miles from any Muggle village. The wards set by my father and grandfather would require hours to break. I doubt even Headmaster Dumbledore or, dare I say it, Potter could squeak through the wards without triggering something rather unpleasant. Without a wand, you'd have no chance at all.

"In addition, I've been instructed to…" again, the command of his native language escaped him, and despite the gravity of the situation Hermione could not help but feel a flicker of amusement as Hogwarts' most fearsome professor actually blushed at the subject matter. Her own cheeks were flushed, she could tell, but pride kept her from letting it affect her.

"If I cannot produce you upon demand, the Dark Lord will not believe any explanation I offer up. Even if I told him you were dead, he'd find an innovative punishment for me and then demand to see your body."

The cold reality of the situation made the excellent food settle like lead in her stomach. "I'm a hostage, of sorts, aren't I?"

Snape nodded barely. "After a fashion. The Dark Lord may not have decided you're of any importance, yet. But if Potter becomes a problem, he will remember you are a friend of his, and use that to whatever advantage he can."

"And if he does, I could be forced to tell him anything I know." Snape did not point out the obviousness of her comment. A few moments' thought later, Hermione straightened in her chair and met Snape's black eyes squarely.

"Perhaps you should Obliviate me. I already know you're working for Dumbledore, and I know you've worked to save Harry, and me. Knowing you're working for the Order could put you in danger."

The corner of Snape's mouth lifted in a sardonic smile. "Do you? Are you sure?" He took another sip of wine. "Are you sure I'm not working both sides?"

Hermione gave him back the same smile. "Well, you haven't raped me, Professor, so I'm fairly certain you're not the Death Eater you pretended to be three days ago. If you were, you'd have given me to Malfoy." If she had had any doubts of Professor Snape's veracity, it was allayed by the flicker of revulsion that crossed his face when she'd said the word 'rape.'

"Speaking of which…"

"Must we?" he retorted lightly. "Malfoys are definitely a subject not fit for the dinner table."

"I meant the ravishment part," she told him, although that was certainly not a subject for the dinner table either. "What are the chances that my virginity will cause you problems?"

The same expression of distaste reappeared, and the man's eyes were dark with some emotion that Hermione did not recognize. "You should be safe here," he told her firmly. "It's unlikely that any of my confederates will intrude here, nor anyone else for that matter. I've never been one of the social crowd."

Hermione sipped her wine rather than comment on this understatement.

"You have my word that I will do whatever is in my power to reestablish contact with the Order. Once I've done so, my first priority will be to find a way to get you out of this house without jeopardizing your safety or compromising my position." ."

Despite his earlier comments, Hermione knew that his comments had more to do with her continued safety rather than the inconvenience that she posed to this incredibly prickly man.

"Thank you, Professor. I promise I'll do my best not to be a bother while I'm here."

"See that you do," was the retort, and it took a supreme act of will on Hermione's part not to roll her eyes as Hogwarts' resident grouch reverted to normal.

1 Manumitterre – Latin for 'to make free,' as in a slave.


	5. Agreements

21 June, 1998

Breakfast at Snape Manor the next day was more cordial than the previous morning's, in so much as a dead silence was cordial. Professor Snape had already started in on a meager meal of toast and eggs when Hermione came, wearing another of the leftover maid's robes. He glanced up once when she appeared, his dark eyes flickering over her hand-me-down clothes before returning to the single sheet of parchment in his hands. The sheet bore the crinkles of having been folded several times, and was apparently more interesting than his unwanted guest.

He answered her polite 'Good morning' with a noise that fell somewhere between a grunt and sigh, and it didn't require a great leap of logic to guess that he'd intended to finish before she made an appearance. He answered none of her attempts at starting a conversation, apparently having an opinion on neither the weather, the food, or the quality or quantity of sleep he had.

Only when Hermione gave up on innocuous comments and asked him straight out what he was reading did she at last receive a grudging response.

"I've received an owl from the Ministry this morning, asking me to contact the Aurors and give a statement at my earliest opportunity. It's a Dictaquill copy; they've likely sent one to each of the Hogwarts professors."

He folded it impatiently and stuck it in the pocket of his waistcoat before gulping down the last of his coffee. Hermione shot him a furtive glance from beneath lowered eyebrows; it was the first time she'd ever seen the man out of his impressive frock coat or heavy robes. His white shirt and charcoal waistcoat made him seem more human, if no less imposing.

"Tell Bitta I will be out for most of the day, and return for dinner. Also, I prefer that meals be served here, rather than the formal dining room." He rose and took a set of robes from the back of his chair, pulling them on and obviously readying himself to depart.

"Wait a minute," Hermione protested. "Where are you going? Did you owl the Ministry back? Are you going there today?"

"You will cease pestering me with questions, Miss Granger," he ordered without any particular inflection. "I will continue what I have been doing, and that includes my efforts to get you off my hands. When and if I find a way to rid myself of your presence, you'll be informed. Until such time I expect you to abide by the agreement we made last night."

Hermione's gathering temper was derailed when a large owl swooped through the open doors and landed with a lurch on the back of one of the chairs. Clutched in one set of talons was a loop of twine, while each end of the loop was tied around a fat bundle of newspapers. She blinked at the owl, who blinked back as if to say 'Well? What are you waiting for?'

Some time after their discussion last night, Professor Snape had obviously made arrangements for back issues of the Daily Prophet to be delivered. It was tangible proof that he had taken her request seriously and made an effort to accommodate her wishes. It made her feel both vaguely ashamed yet perversely reassured that her teacher was making some sort of effort to honor their agreement. The least she could do was sit back and stop pestering the man so.

Gingerly, Hermione relieved the owl of its burden and fumbled the knot out of the string binding the whole mess together. As she began to open the large printed sheets, the owl bated its wings and let out a piercing shriek.

"Calm down!" she told it, and to her surprise it did, although it gave her a sharp, expectant look. She in turn could only look at her professor, who scowled and dug a Sickle from his waistcoat pocket and tossed it across the table. Hermione felt a pleasure all out of proportion to the deed when she managed to catch it in mid-air. Once the payment was safely tucked into the pouch fastened to its leg, the owl seemed satisfied and launched itself off the chair, swooping through the breakfast room and out the same window it had come in.

Before Hermione could say anything else to her professor the man had also departed, in an equally impressive swirl of black cloth and she was left on her own once again. "Well," she said aloud to the empty room. With nothing else pressing for her time, she poured another cup of tea, sat down to the remains of breakfast, and put her attention to the papers.

Resisting the temptation to simply read the latest news, she put the editions in chronological order and began to read. The first, dated fifteen June, bore a large photo of Hogwart's sloping front lawn with the castle in the background and the Dark Mark floating in the air above. The lurid headline read 'HOGWARTS FALLS TO FORCES OF DARKNESS.'

The article itself included a great deal of sensationalism and hyperbole, but lacked anything in the way of solid information. A large number of people were quoted, all of them speculating wildly, but none seemed to have any real facts to impart. She was relieved when she read a line stating that no bodies had been found in the school, but Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter were listed as missing. A Hogwarts Board of Governors official was interviewed extensively but none of his remarks were truly relevant.

As she read through the following days' articles, a picture began to emerge. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his Death Eaters had broken the magical protection wards around the school on the final day of testing for N.E.W.T. students. Some credit was given to the Hogwarts' staff for having already planned an evacuation plan for the students, and most of the students had been able to escape before the castle was overrun. The students had been led down through some previously undiscovered tunnels beneath the castle that eventually had taken them to a cave that let out near the Hogwarts express.

Several references were made, in the various articles, that certain students were missing. A list of those missing children was printed inside the second page of each day's paper, one which grew shorter with each successive day as the missing students were found to have been overlooked in the original counting or had been taken away by their parents before an official tally had begun. Her own name was on the list along with a handful of others, almost all of whom were Seventh year Slytherins but contained a few other names as well. A small, not very flattering picture of her was included with the list, along with a note that stated she was Head Girl.

The fact that she was Muggle-born was significant enough to be mentioned, and a vague note of disapproval crept into the article even as it told how she had helped several of the younger students escape through a previously unknown tunnel that lead to Hogsmeade. Apparently her knowledge of such a route was considered suspect, despite the good it had done. Another handful of students had been found hiding in the castle when the Aurors had descended in force and conducted a thorough search of the school.

In all, however, any resolution on the matter of missing or displaced students remained unsubstantiated while the school's administrators were missing. The majority of the professors, along with the proctors supervising the end of school exams, had already been accounted for by the Ministry, but Albus Dumbledore, Minerva McGonagall, and a handful of the senior students were last seen in the confusing tunnels below the school, according to Professor Maude Marchbank. "Dumbledore was there one moment, and then gone the next," she was quoted waspishly. "If Cornelius Fudge thinks his Aurors can locate him before he's willing to be found, then he's a bigger fool than I already know him to be."

Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Ginny Weasley, Luna Lovegood, Neville Longbottom, and a dozen other students were considered to be part of Dumbledore's band, and although they were listed among the official missing and the general public was asked to report any sighting of them immediately.

An hour later, Hermione finished the papers with a vague sense of dissatisfaction. Her tea was cold, her fingers black from newspaper ink, but her situation remained unchanged. She knew a bit more about what was going on in the world, but not unsurprisingly the press had done little to shed light on the fall of Hogwarts.

Disgruntled, she stacked the papers where Snape could find them, should he want them, and frowned at the silent, empty room until a random impulse struck. The open French doors beckoned, and within moments she had wandered outside to the gardens again. The riotous growth of the roses contrasted starkly with the sterile environs of the house, and the scent filled the cool morning air with heavy perfume. Dancing in and among the petals, heavy honeybees droned and swooped about, more than once making Hermione pause as she made her way around to the small greenhouse.

The little green glass building had all the charm and whimsy of its age, and Hermione could not repress a small smile as she leaned her weight on the handle and convinced it to turn. Bits of rust showered down from the iron hinges, and they let out a theatrical squeal as she forced the door open. A few scraped lines in the travel arc of the door showed that a heavy red tile lay under the filth caked on the floor. Inside, the light filtered down through the dirty ceiling panes, giving enough drab light for her to see the rows of empty pots and broken shards, and shallow bins full of clutter.

On the wall, a rack of tools was festooned with cobwebs and dust. Gaps were more common than the actual tools, but a set of heavy-duty scissors suitable for clipping flowers and pruning small bushes remained. A long scythe was propped in the corner, looking out of place in the dainty room, but the blade was little more than pits and rust on a rickety handle. A pair of ancient dragon-hide gloves ruptured along the stitching when she moved them.

The lawn was too far out of control to even consider, but a set of old hedge trimmers and a Japanese pruning knife, something like a small machete, gave her inspiration some merit. The overgrown garden beds promised enough hard work to keep her busy and out of Professor Snape's black, greasy hair for some time to come. As long as he didn't object, of course.

Some work would need to be put into sharpening the tools, but surely Whitlock could handle that minor bit of household magic. He might even be willing to help her put the greenhouse to rights, if Professor Snape did not object to her asking the house elves for some assistance. The clutter and dirt in the small space offended her on a deep level, and she would love to see the place restored to its original use. If she were truly ambitious, she could likely start some seeds for a truck garden.

"You're not going to be here long enough to start growing vegetables, girl," she told herself firmly, refusing to consider the possibility that she could be stuck at Snape Manor for any longer than necessary. "The flowers are enough to be getting on with."

Dinner was a plain affair, served at the same breakfast table as per the orders from the master of the house. Bitta obviously took that as an indication that formal dining was not necessary and had laid out any fancy robes, much to Hermione's relief. Wearing the maids' utilitarian garb was almost the same as wearing her uniform, but she really did not care for wearing clothes abandoned by the old master's paramours – the dress had made her uncomfortable with equal parts tacky and creepy attached, and a dash of pure 'ick' thrown in for good measure.

The master himself appeared as Hermione was seating herself at the table, and she did her best to appear unflustered as her former Potions Professor held her chair for her. She suspected it was a reflex action rather than a true courtesy, for the man seemed to catch himself and scowl before taking his own seat without any further ceremony.

"I left the newspapers for you, sir," she mentioned halfway through the main course. "I think Bitta probably moved them."

"Was anything particularly illuminating included in them?" His tone expressed supreme doubt, and she was forced to shake her head.

The sound of her cutlery was abnormally loud as she ate her dinner, and every clatter made her wince. The glaze on the plates was crackled, and gave the impression it would break with harsh use. Dinner was nearly completed before she mustered her courage to break the silence once more.

"Professor, I've been out in the garden today. The roses are blooming nicely. Would you object if I cut some of them for my room?"

"Suit yourself, Miss Granger."

The man had not even glanced at her, seemingly absorbed in his portion of chicken. It was rather good – Bitta was an excellent cook – but hardly that interesting. Hermione was getting rather tired of the whole production; after all, she hadn't asked to be here and her presence was hardly the end of wizarding civilization as they knew it.

"Also, if you don't mind, I'd like to see if I can find some curtains for my room. The window faces straight east."

Snape shot her a repressive glance, but replied, "See what is in the other bedrooms, or ask Bitta."

"Thank you," she returned in crisp tones.

"Be sure you leave the master suite alone," he added between neat bites.

"I wouldn't disturb your rooms, sir." Hermione frowned, bewildered that he thought she would be so intrusive, but his next words clarified things.

"The master bedroom is empty; I use the room closest to the staircase. Leave it alone as well."

"Yes, sir."

Well, she thought, that does make some sense. After all, she would not have appreciated Snape wandering through her parents' bedroom, either. Even so, this constant mental tiptoeing about was nerve-wracking. It was bad enough that she was stuck here; this constant waiting for Snape to go spare over some unwitting mistake was exhausting.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione steeled her resolve. "Professor," she began tentatively, "you haven't really told me what I may or may not do in your house. As it is your house, I don't want to offend you somehow."

She waited, knowing that she'd left herself open for one of his typical cutting remarks. To her surprise, he merely finished chewing his last bite of chicken and washed it down with the last of his wine.

"Stay out of the lab, leave the house elves alone. Other than that, you may do as you wish."

Keeping her mouth from falling open took some doing, but she managed. "Then it's all right with you if I puttered about in the garden?"

"As your generation is so fond of saying, Miss Granger, knock yourself out."

"And you don't mind if I prune back the roses? Or dig up some of the bulbs that are out of control? I used to help my father quite a bit. I found the greenhouse; it's a fright but it has some possibilities."

"No," he replied shortly.

"And I may hang whatever curtains I can find?"

"Yes," he replied, even more tersely.

Another thought struck her, and she opened her mouth even though prudence had taken note of the lines appearing around Snape's mouth. "You know, the lawn is out of control, but I think it could be salvaged with a little work. And the hole in the entryway could be patched with just a little spackle – I've seen programs on television that show how to do it."

Snape laid his utensils down with rather more force than necessary. "Miss Granger, let me make one thing perfectly clear. I loathe this house. I detest every brick, every pane of glass, and every stick of furniture within it. When I die, I expect the whole thing to go to the Enchanted Revenue, lock, stock and house elves. The taxes haven't been paid on it since I was younger than you are now.

"If you want to build a bonfire in the garden and ritually sacrifice the garden gnomes, I don't care. Just let me know if you you'll be using my stores for burn ointment."

"You don't have any supplies to make burn ointment," she commented pointlessly rather than respond to his statement.

Snape inhaled through his nose, almost visibly regaining his renowned self-control. "I'll be stocking the laboratory and bringing it up to some sort of working order."

"Really?" she asked, remembering the mess in the rudimentary lab. "That's a lot of work you're taking on. I'd be glad to lend you a hand, if you like."

Instantly she knew she'd pushed too far – Snape's black eyebrows drew down into a dark scowl line and his tone was colder than a glacier.

"I'll thank you, Miss Granger, to keep your grubby little Gryffindor paws off my potions ingredients and out of my laboratory."

Hermione's back stiffened at this latest salvo. "Fine. Next time brew your own hangover potion."

The silence abruptly returned. Snape seemed unconcerned, but offered his next words with the air of one conferring a favor. "You may have free rein of the library."

"Have you seen the library?"

He frowned. "No."

"Then take a look before you offer it like a lolly. It's even worse than your laboratory."

"You're not exactly a guest who requires entertaining, Miss Granger," he reminded her in biting tone.

"No, I'm a prisoner and a hostage," she shot back. When he shifted uncomfortably, Hermione recalled exactly the implication he'd given Voldemort. A memento of a supposed servitude under Albus Dumbledore, to be used and abused as a plaything. She had no illusions as to what kind of treatment she'd have been given by Draco Malfoy, and her common sense and innate fairness forced her to tamp down on the annoyance simmering under the surface.

"Professor, I'm quite aware that if you had not laid claim to me, I'd likely be tied to Draco Malfoy's bed. Please, don't think I'm not grateful for what your rescue. However, I'm not entirely sure that this situation is any better. I may not be suffering from an overdose of Malfoy attentions, but all that makes very little difference if I go barking mad with nothing to do."

Rather than answer her immediately, Snape reached for the wine bottle and poured another measure into his glass. Hermione noted, with a previously unsuspected hint of approval, that he filled it less than half full. He held the bottle up questioningly, and when she shook her head he put the cork back in with a decisive pop.

"It won't be for long, Miss Granger," he replied at length.

Hermione finished off her own wine rather than reply to that, but could not help thinking that things were bad indeed if Severus Snape was resorting to platitudes and self-delusion.

Her dinner partner must have picked up her thoughts, however, and a condescending sneer appeared on his features. It wasn't very intimidating, considering the man's repertoire of harsh looks, but it was enough to put her on her guard.

"What I do not understand, Miss Granger, is how a young woman – one who is best friends with two teenage boys – "

"You want to know why I haven't lost my virginity yet?" One of the things she had learned in the last seven years' dealings with Slytherins was that when uncomfortable, counterattack. In this case, it actually worked; Professor Snape gave no indication he was flustered, other than to pick up his wineglass once more, but she knew from his previous reactions that blunt discussion of her status discomfited him. It wasn't easy for her, either, but bluntness was a weapon in the right hands. Hers. "Apparently I intimidate boys, Professor. And I tend to be impatient with fumblers."

He nearly choked on his wine.

Hermione was surprised yet again when something close to a grin came and went on his face. She hated to imagine what odd thoughts were going through his head – perhaps herself, at her swotty best, issuing orders to Ron or Harry in bed. She could understand how that would be amusing, even if it was unflattering.

"If I'm going to be here for some time, Professor, I'd rather be doing something constructive. Even if it doesn't make a difference in the long run."

"Very well, Miss Granger. Bitta will find you curtains, or some will be purchased. Do what you will with the garden, or the library, but stay out of my lab."

"Yes, Professor," she replied.

Some twelve hours later, Severus Snape was finding it necessary to eat his own words.

Piqued by the girl's comments regarding the library, he had proceeded there directly after dinner. It was a nostalgic walk down that long hall; he had spent so little time in the house since his mother's death that he scarcely remembered parts of it. Of course, he'd been only thirteen then, and his memories were those of a barely-adolescent unwillingly returning to his father's house. Once he'd come of age he'd refused to set foot in the house until his father's death, and only briefly visited in the five years since then.

Despite the signs of decay and neglect he encountered at every turn, the passage to the library was a familiar one. His ancestors had gathered an immense repository of knowledge, and he had spent countless there, slipping past his father's study to immerse himself in the tomes. He had often accused Miss Granger of being a bookworm, but he himself was equally guilty.

When he opened the heavy door and muttered a 'Lumos' spell to augment the dim twilight spilling in through the high transom windows, shock was not a word equal to the emotion that went through him. The empty shelves were like gaping wounds; great hunks literally torn out of what good memories he did have of this house. Charming the oil lamps around the room to life, those that still had oil in them, anyway, only made things worse for the golden light highlighted the dust and trash in the corners and piled on the tables.

His heart gave a funny leap when he found the few books that remained on the shelves, only to fall again when he realized the texts were all inane drivel, or else the worthless trash 'household help' books his father had given to his mother in his not-so-subtle insults at the poor condition of their home. Never mind the fact that there was no money for her to run the house, that he had already squandered her dowry portion, along with anything left from his own father, on his frivolous pursuits and serious drinking habits.

Sitting down at one of the few chairs left in the library, Severus allowed his shoulders to slump as he considered the gutted room as a whole. He had no doubt that every last volume, including some rather rare and valuable manuscripts, had been boxed up and sold, likely by the yard, to a bookseller. It was so very like Auberon Snape to indulge his own vices and torment his family with one gesture. Severus was equally sure that any bookseller would likely have cheated a man like his father, who made no secret of his contempt for books and the knowledge they contained, and had despised his wife and son for the pleasure they got from the same.

Mourning the loss of the library was useless, and he firmly put the loss in the same mental closet with all of his other disappointments and closed the door. As he did so, it allowed him to recall the rest of Miss Granger's dinner conversation. Apprehension and a certain amount of dread stole over him as he recalled her comments regarding the state of his lab. He remembered it as being barely adequate during the few holidays he had been forced to return home as a teenager. Auberon had held little respect for his son's pursuits, but as long as the boy stayed respectful, quiet, and out of his hair he hadn't cared what he was up to.

In return, Severus could not have cared less about his father and his steady succession of light skirts that came and went with astonishing regularity. His father wasn't handsome, nor was he rich, but he had a classic bad boy attraction that brought the women by the score. They usually stayed long enough to realize how close Auberon was to his last few Knuts, then promptly demanded to leave. A battle of wills invariably ensued as the man played ruthless mind games with the women. Eventually he would tire of tormenting them and lift the wards around the house, allowing them to leave as shattered, bitter shadows of their former selves and cursing the house of Snape.

Pushing away the memories and the painfully obvious parallels they presented, Severus made his way to the cellar access and down the rickety stairs. Those would have to be reinforced, as soon as possible. Again, once he had called light to his wand, his reaction was equal parts horror and chagrin over his own dismissal of Hermione Granger's offer. Dust lay in deep layers over all surfaces, save one table where a few clean implements laid on a scrubbed end section. The rest of his teenaged workroom was in a disarray that boggled the mind. It would take him the better part of a week to simply clean the place to a point that he could decide where to start.

A colorful epithet died a strangled death as he opened the supply closet and found the rack of supplies in the same condition Hermione had left it. Tins of stuff had swelled and burst, spilling over the shelves and warping the wood; mice had been at the cartons and wooden containers, letting the dried or granular contents drain out. It would be easier to throw out everything and start over with a bare room than try to salvage even a portion of the contents.

Speak in haste, and repent in leisure, he thought ruefully as he poked a swollen cardboard carton with his wand. A sudden swarming movement split the box and he leapt back to avoid the spillage of parchment heevils, a magical version of the common boll weevil that infested libraries and abandoned storerooms, eating anything made of paper or parchment.

It was a testament to Miss Granger's skills that she'd been able to find enough ingredients to create a working hangover potion for him that morning. As much as he hated to admit it, the girl was more than adequate with a cauldron, and her potions scores had been fairly earned despite everything he had done to discourage her from taking his class. It was bad enough that he had Potter and Weasley and – Merlin help him – Longbottom in his Advanced Potions class. The addition of the Gryffindor know-it-all had made it impossible for him to keep inter-house rivalries down to a dull roar and inevitably left him with a screeching headache afterwards.

He could order the house elves to clean the room, of course, but it went against all of his instincts to allow them to enter his laboratories. Besides, they had more than enough work to keep up with the cooking and the cleaning. No, cleaning a laboratory was apprentice work, and he'd already rejected Miss Granger's offer.

Another urge to swear came and went. He was a bloody Potions Master. He shouldn't have to do this kind of work any longer. Besides, he had a lead on Remus Lupin, and it might actually lead him to the man himself. He'd put it out that he was searching for the werewolf, with the not so subtle undertone that he had a personal score to settle. With an air of resignation, Snape settled on the clean end of the table and considered his option. He could either ask the girl for help, allowing her to further intrude on his life, or do it himself and lose valuable time in his search.

Either way, he was bound to be greatly inconvenienced.

At breakfast the next morning, the girl was already in her accustomed chair (the very fact that she had a 'usual chair' was enough to rankle), engrossed in yet another of those horrid household tip books. She greeted him absently, turning a page and as she crunched through a rasher of bacon.

And so it went – he ate his portion quickly and then lingered over his coffee while the pride of Gryffindor, academically speaking, leisurely buttered her toast and ignored him.

"About my laboratory…" he finally mentioned in a casual voice. "Perhaps I spoke too hastily, Miss Granger."

"It's a disaster, isn't it?" she commented, sipping her tea.

Severus permitted the corner of his mouth to lift slightly. It never failed to amuse when a Gryffindor thought it had a claw in a tender part. "Yes."

"It's all right, Professor. I know how you prefer your things set. I'm willing to clean it for you."

He didn't have to be the head of Slytherin to decipher the unspoken subtext – this was where the claw flexed. "And in return?"

"I would appreciate it if you would allow me access to your stores. The soap in this house is older than I am."

Years of practice kept him from showing any reaction, but he was surprised. "You make your own soap?"

"Not usually," she confessed, "but I do know how. And how to make a decent shampoo, and a hair tonic. The stuff they sell down at the boutiques in Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade are full of all sorts of nonsense. Some of the girls at Hogwarts had horrible reactions, and I used to help them figure out what was making them react."

"I see." He did not comment on the state of her hair, but he could tell that it was even fuzzier that usual. "If you're going to make soap, you'll need lye and lanolin and several other items as well."

She nodded in agreement. "I'll make a list, if that's all right." She made as if to rise, but settled again when he raised one hand to forestall her and summoned one of the house elves with a snap of his fingers.

Whitlock brought quill and foolscap to Miss Granger, twisting his ears in distress when the girl thanked him. Severus dismissed the house elf and idly picked at the remains of his breakfast as the list emerged, then got longer, and then even longer still. "What the devil are you on about, girl?" he demanded finally. Her quill hesitated, but did not stop until she had added a last few items.

He held out one imperious hand. "Let me see that." When she handed the sheet over, his eyes quickly went down the list. Almond oil, olive oil, several herbal essences, processed lye, all standard soap ingredients. Most of the ingredients were excellent for skin and hair, and he could find no fault in them.

"What's this?" he asked, stabbing the sheet with a long finger.

A hint of color appeared on her cheeks, but she answered steadily enough. "I don't mind wearing the leftover maids' robes, Professor, or the corsets, but I came here wearing only one set of knickers. I'll also need some sanitary supplies in the next week or so."

"I see," he managed, rather pleased that the words came out evenly. For the last decade or so, whenever any female matters had come up in his house, he'd managed to fob them all of onto Madame Pomfrey. He much preferred it that way, and had little inclination to discuss it any further with his guest.

"Very well. Bitta can place this order to the supply house along with the usual household provisions, but I'll be required to pay for it in advance. The house of Snape does not have an extensive line of credit."

"But…" the girl sputtered, seemingly confused by his financial straights. "You're a Hogwarts professor…"

"Am I? Is there any Hogwarts, after the events of the last week?" he returned sharply. "I'm not made of money, Miss Granger, and despite the prestige, a Hogwarts professor doesn't make much salary. My family vaults are nearly as empty as the Weasleys."

The girl stared at him for a moment, more than long enough for him to regret being so frank. His horror only grew when she reached to her neck and pulled out a long gold chain. At the end of it dangled a golden Gringotts key. He could just make out the numbers etched on either side - Vault 928.

Mortally offended, he opened his mouth to object, but she cut him off. "Don't be stupid, Professor. I'll pay for my own things, and I certainly don't want to be in your debt. There isn't a great deal of money in the vault, but I trust you not to clean me out. However I think it would amuse Volde – I mean You-Know-Who – to know you'd bullied me into giving you my Gringotts key. It's just the sort of thing he'd find entertaining."

She held out the chain and key, and reluctantly Severus took it. "The Dark Lord would find it vastly diverting," he admitted before wrapping the chain around his fingers. "I'll be sure to make a note of how much is removed."

The girl nodded, her eyes dropping to the tabletop. She cleared her throat, and to his astonishment a faint blush rose to her cheeks as she tidied her breakfast things. "I lied." He raised one eyebrow as she elaborated. "That has my university fund in it," she admitted hesitantly. "The last time I checked I had just over seventeen thousand Galleons in it."

Both eyebrows went up at the figure she named. "I beg your pardon?" he managed.

"Well, what with all the uproar over the introduction of the Euro, my parents went to Gringotts and spoke to one of their financial experts. Gringotts is actually looking forward to the new currency, but there's a lot of controversy over the whole thing…" The girl rightly interpreted his blank look as an indication that he hadn't the faintest idea what she was talking about. She faded to silence and began again. "My account contains my entire life savings, from birthdays and Christmas and every odd job I've ever had. My great aunt left me some money as well, and it's all been saved for me to go to university. My parents put it all into Galleons last summer."

"Weren't they worried about the war?"

"Yes," she said. "But they were also concerned that I might find myself needing emergency funds at some point. They specifically told me to do whatever I thought best in such a case." Her fingers, he noted, were plucking at a stray string on the spine of her book. "I suppose this does somewhat fit the description of emergency, don't you think?"

Severus had no answer to that parting comment – indeed, as he watched her leave the room, he was hard pressed to think of anything truly constructive to say at the moment. In the past twenty years, he'd never been quite so flabbergasted as he was at this moment. Hermione Granger, the Gryffindor know-it-all who comprised one-third of the Golden Trio and the bane of his existence, had just handed over her entire life savings to him and said she trusted him with it.

As much as he tried to tell himself that seventeen thousand was just a drop in the proverbial bucket, Severus could not quite convince himself. The girl was no spoilt Pureblood with a vast family fortune. Narcissa Malfoy probably spent that much on an afternoon shopping spree, but she'd never worked for a Knut of the money she was spending. Granger had as much as said she'd scrimped and saved and, yes, earned the money represented by this little golden key.

The sound of Miss Granger's raised voice, accompanied by Bitta's strident tones, brought his attention back to the here and now. A few long strides took him into the kitchens, where he found his student playing tog-o-war with his house elf over a broom.

"Bitta! Miss Granger! You will explain yourselves!"

Both females turned to glare at him.

"The young miss is wanting my good broom –"

"I just asked for some cleaning supplies! Honestly, you'd think I was stealing the silver!"

"I don't own any true silverware," Severus cut them off. "Bitta, give her the broom. Miss Granger, you do not ask a house elf for something, you tell them. Whitlock!" A snap of his fingers accompanied his summons, and the other house elf scuttled out from beneath Bitta's short table.

"Whitlock, you will find some buckets and fill them with hot water. Bitta, Miss Granger will be cleaning my laboratory."

"Whitlock would be happy to clean Master's laboratory," whined the younger elf, but Severus cut him off.

"No, Whitlock. Laboratories are to be cleaned by apprentices and students, not house elves. You'll fetch and carry buckets or whatever else Miss Granger requires, but you are not to lift a finger to clean. Do I make myself clear?"

The elf twisted his ear miserably, but nodded. Severus spared a frown at the elf. He really needed to have a word with Bitta; Whitlock had been odd in the head when they were both youngsters in the house, and he'd gotten even odder as the years went by. For just a moment he felt a dram of remorse for leaving the house so neglected, but it was a short-lived pang. The two of them had been far better off here, alone, than being forced to look after the kind of company Severus had kept in the last few years.

With even more reluctance, Bitta was cajoled into relinquishing the last of her floor-scrubbing soap and a scrub brush as well. Thus armed, Miss Granger set off to do battle with the grunge-encrusted laboratory while Severus donned his robes with some satisfaction and set out to spend this day as he had the last few – searching for some sign of the Order of the Phoenix without completely giving away his position as a double agent and winding up very, very dead.


	6. Who's at the Door?

23 June, 1998

It took Hermione two days to completely clean Snape's laboratory, and when the job was finally finished, she stood back and surveyed the results with sore muscles and an overwhelming sense of satisfaction. The stone floor had been thoroughly scrubbed, the wooden tables waxed and polished, and new cabinets set up in a logical pattern within reach of the prep table. The cabinets weren't precisely new, as Whitlock had dragged them up from somewhere, but they were solid and spacious.

The house elf had also leveled the wobble out of one worktable and put new spikes in the timbers overhead that held up the high ceiling. The spikes held adjustable chains, from which were suspended the oil lamps scavenged from the library. What cauldrons she'd deemed worth salvaging were cleaned and racked neatly, along with all the implements that were still useable. She'd also made a list of things she thought Professor Snape might need to obtain. That had garnered her a snide comment about making lists for everything; apparently he had heard of her study guides designed to help Harry and Ron to make it through their N.E.W.T.s.

Professor Snape had taken a cursory look at her efforts and pronounced them 'adequate.' Hermione wasn't sure if she should be pleased or offended by his response, but he'd also given her best efforts in potions class an 'adequate' as well and reluctantly given her full marks for them. When the same standard was applied to the work she'd done in his lab, it was nearly a gushing appreciation.

The hard work of clearing up the potion lab had been cathartic, in a way, and the sense of accomplishment buoyed Hermione as she surveyed the overgrown garden a day later, a freshly sharpened pruning knife in hand. Although uneasy at taking any direction from her, Whitlock continued to obey his master's orders and done what few tasks she'd asked of him. Already the timid house elf had removed the drifts of several years' leaves from the garden and whisked away the rubble from the terrace. Now, as the sun rose higher in the sky and Hermione remembered another curse word every time one of the rose branches caught her bare skin, Whitlock was following close behind and gathering up the multitude of fallen branches she left in her wake.

For the first hour she saved the prettiest roses, but before long she had cut more than a hundred blooms for the house. It seemed a shame to waste them, but Professor Snape had been succinct in his dismissal of the roses for any potions needs and she would have nowhere near the quantity needed to produce an attar of roses, even if she were so inclined.

The lady's hand she had seen projecting from the mass of climbing roses was attached to a graceful if entirely ordinary classical Greek statue, nearly life-size on a marble base. The figure itself was of a woman, her carved mantle drawn about her shapely form. One bare arm emerged from those demure pleats of marble, holding out a hand as if to feel the rain or raising an offering to the wild birds. Whitlock was happy to Scourgify the statue back to her original pristine white. Hermione left an especially large white rose in the statue's hand, wiped the sweat from her brow, and went back to work.

The little house elf was also willing to place a severing charm on those branches Hermione could not lop off with her knife, although all attempts to draw him into conversation failed. Truthfully, she was not feeling all that chatty after the work she'd done so far. Avoiding the masses of thorns as she pruned back the overgrowth took a great deal of her attention, hampered as she was by the inadequate glove she'd salvaged from the pieces of leather found in the greenhouse, and the completely overdone gown she was forced to wear.

Hermione had been unable to find any shorter robes in the house to dress in, nor had she been able to convince Bitta to alter the maid's robes into something remotely more appropriate. A compromise had finally been struck with the old-fashioned house elf, and Bitta had grudgingly charmed the sturdy leftover robes into sleeveless, square-necked gowns worn over plain white shifts with the sleeves rolled up. At the end of it, Hermione found herself in possession of a wardrobe that would not have been out of place in the Middle Ages. With a long pinafore apron over the front, the worst of a day's dirt and grime was kept off her clothes.

It was past noon, by her estimates, when her stomach began to send up reminders that it had been a long time since breakfast. She paused and surveyed her progress while wiping her face yet again. A stone path beside the statue had opened into what seemed to be a secluded seating area, complete with a bench. The greenery blanketing the other side of the open area was lumpy with the promise of a matching bench, but that promise held little weight against the gnawing emptiness in her belly and the allure of a long, cold drink of water.

The cool, shimmery tone of a gong spread out through the open doors of the house, magically transmitted to the garden. A glance at Whitlock's wide-open eyes was proof that this was not something in the usual course of things at Snape Manor.

"Right, then," Hermione told him, laying her pruning knife down on the exposed bench. "I wonder what that was?"

The elf did not answer, so with some trepidation Hermione wiped her hands on her apron and went to investigate. Walking into the cool, dark interior of the house from the bright garden left her eyes momentarily unable to make out many details, but the familiar dark form of Severus Snape was instantly recognizable.

"Professor? I heard an odd noise…"

The man turned to her, but he was already speaking to someone else. "Come through to the salon, Lucius, the rest of the house isn't fit for habitation yet."

Seven years as the man's student had left Hermione familiar with most of his expressions of displeasure, but this one was entirely new and promised more retribution than usual.

"Go back to your chores," Snape ordered coldly.

"Yes, sir," she whispered, and made to obey, but Lucius Malfoy moved to intercept her. Impeccably dressed for a fugitive, it was obvious the man had not spent the past twenty-four months in any sort of true discomfort. Hermione stopped in her tracks, keeping her eyes on the highly polished boots before her.

"Well, well," the blond wizard remarked. "So this is the keepsake Draco wanted to claim." The silver snakehead of his cane moved into her field of vision, sliding under her chin and lifting her head up. However dirty and disheveled she had been from working in the garden, she had not truly felt soiled until the man's eyes leisurely looked her over, from the sweat-dampened tendrils of hair that had escaped their plait, down to the edge of the white shift that clung to her skin above the neckline of her robes.

"She still has defiance in her eyes, Severus. Are you sure you have her under control?"

The cane drifted down, one of the teeth snagging the drawstring front of her chemise. For the first time Hermione regretted that she hadn't allowed Bitta to make the outer robes as high as originally planned as the silver fang pulled the neckline of the chemise down, revealing more of her cleavage. Malfoy smiled coldly as he watched her breasts rise and fall with her breathing, something that sped up as she shivered under his touch.

"She's sun-burnt, Severus. I would have thought you'd take better care of your toys."

With a leisurely step Snape walked over, crowding close behind her until she could feel his body along her spine. One black-clad arm went around her waist and pulled her even closer to him, while his free hand casually pressed a finger into the upper slope of her breast, watching the white circle turn pink again and again.

"Bitta," he called negligently, "Find Miss Granger a hat. See that she wears it."

"Yes, Master," answered the house elf from somewhere, but Hermione did not dare look away from the man in front of her.

Behind Hermione Granger, Severus Snape was mentally cursing fate, the girl's curiosity, and the sadistic sense of mischief embodied in one of his oldest friends, although not necessarily in that order. Lucius Malfoy, he was convinced, had been a cat in a previous existence despite his lifelong dedication to their house and all it embodied. He preferred the best things in life, loathed the necessity of putting real effort into anything he'd ever done, and had a malicious wit that enjoyed toying with anyone smaller or less powerful than himself.

From this angle, pressed up against the girl's smaller frame, looking down over her shoulder, Severus could see her as Lucius must - young, delectable breasts in the tight-fitting bodice of her robes, slightly sun-burnt and beginning to freckle. Her lips were pink and glistening, her face pinked and glowing from her exertions. He knew exactly what Lucius was thinking -- envisioning her flushed from sex, his mouth and hands on her body, her luscious mouth parted in either ecstasy or pain as he took her.

He was uncomfortably aware of the stirring that image elicited in his trousers, along with the reminder that he hadn't had a woman for some time. Standing over her like this, his sensitive nose caught the scent of roses and sunshine and her not-entirely-unpleasant perspiration, all of which combined into the aroma of warm, vibrant woman rising from her body. In his profession the sense of smell was often more vital than that of sight, but in combination they were exponentially potent. Along with that realization came another, that Hermione Granger was exactly the kind of distraction he didn't need.

With deceptive casualness, Severus slid his hand away from the bodice of Hermione's robes, moving down to grasp her wrist and lift it up. Her own hand, looking harmless and petite in his, was dirty and showing the beginnings of blisters as well as a multitude of scratches from the brambles and rose thorns she'd battled all morning. One particularly nasty scratch went across the back of her thumb, leaving a dotted line of blood.

The girl shuddered in his grip as he closed his lips over the injured thumb and licked it clean. He heard her breath hitch, and knew Lucius had heard it as well. "Gloves as well, Bitta. Go back outside," he ordered, his lips nearly touching her ear. "When you've done, I want you to bathe – thoroughly – and wait for me in my rooms."

"Yes sir," she managed, her voice trembling.

"Good girl," he told her, his voice dark and smoky and loaded with carnal promise. With a firm push the girl was sent back out the French doors and into the garden, away from Lucius Malfoy. The man continued to watch her through the opening until Severus gestured with one hand towards the salon.

A bowl brimming with roses in a riot of colors sat on the ancient pianoforte in the salon and another vase of blooms on a side table showed the results of Hermione's labors, but Lucius did not seem to notice them. His piercing blue eyes swept over the room, noting the still fine furnishings and accessories, and then lingered for a moment on the painting that hung on the wall. Severus' grandmother gave the blond wizard a bare nod of acknowledgment, which he returned, but as usual the old witch's painted eyes swept over her grandson with only a flicker of recognition.

Severus forced himself to make small talk, apologizing once more for the state of the house and lack of a decent sherry while his guest seated himself, carefully draping the tail of his expensive robes over his chair. Bitta appeared with a tea tray and a paltry offering of last night's pudding dished into small custard pots.

"So, old friend," Lucius began, with an air of one meeting an acquaintance at the park, "how is your life of leisure, now that you've escaped Dumbledore's sticky grasp?"

Severus repressed a sigh of impatience. It simply would not do to just ask Lucius what he wanted. That wasn't the way Pureblood society, especially Slytherins, interacted. Privately wishing it were possible to bore someone to death, Severus spent the next little while relating the painfully detailed travails of setting up his laboratory and the research he intended to perform. Lucius Malfoy was one of his oldest friends, indeed had once been his only friend, but a long time had passed since they had actually spoken to each other without the underlying sense of verbal fencing.

Eventually, Lucius circled closer to the heart of the matter and mentioned that he had received a notice from one of the Dark Lord's supporters within the Aurory. Severus nodded minutely. It wasn't a great leap of logic to guess that a supporter of the Dark Lord was gathering intelligence from inside the Auror ranks. Indeed, it was that very possibility that had formed his decision not to approach any of the Order members within the same organization. Had he done so, it was likely he would not be breathing now.

"Scrimgeour tells me that the Ministry is asking some difficult questions. Various elements want to know where you were while Dumbledore was scampering away." A thin smile, which could almost be classified as sympathetic, crossed Lucius' classic features. "You should likely expect someone in an official capacity to appear soon, asking you those particularly sticky questions."

"Hmm," was all the reply Severus made. "It's good of you to be concerned, old friend. I am in your debt."

He was no such thing; Lucius wanted something, and Severus was not surprised when the blond man's gaze drifted casually to the roses displayed around the room.

"It might prove awkward to have a house guest during the next few days. I thought I might offer some alternate accommodations for your... company."

This time it was Severus' turn to smile thinly. "You would offer, Lucius? Or did Draco express his devastation at having left school so suddenly? Surely he has classmates other than Miss Granger he'd rather have visit him.

"At the risk of sounding juvenile, Lucius, tell your son it's Finders Keepers. I found the girl, and I'll keep her. I've no intention of sharing any time soon, if at all. Your son can console himself with other pursuits."

Displeased but not surprised, the corner of Lucius' mouth turned down with distaste. "I told the little fool you wouldn't, but he's unused to being denied. His mother always indulged him too much. He performs well enough, as long as I keep my eye on him, but the moment I send him off on his own he disappoints."

"He seemed competent enough at Hogwarts," Snape's voice was carefully noncommittal.

"Again, he was under your supervision, Severus. Though if you'll remember, any time he antagonized Potter, Draco ended up on the losing end. He and his friends, they've none of them the kind of drive you and I had."

"You do the boy a disservice," Snape protested mildly, the revulsion of defending Draco Malfoy disguised by sipping on his tea. "He showed a promising desire to dominate his classmates."

"Ambition is one thing," Lucius told him. "Ability is another. Your toy Mudblood, dare I say it, shows more raw ability than the boy." Disappointment drew his handsome features down into a frown. "Hybrid vigor, I suppose. She must have a wizard by-blow in her history somewhere."

"I wouldn't know," Snape said with a deliberate leer. "I haven't asked."

To his surprise, Lucius threw his head back and laughed, sounding like the young man they'd both been years ago, before the Dark Lord's first defeat when they'd been comrades in arms, fighting for a cause dear to both their hearts. "It's good to see you enjoying yourself, Severus. I've missed our old talks."

"You should come by more often," he answered without thinking. "Or perhaps I could drop by Malfoy Manor. After all, I haven't seen Narcissa in quite some time."

At the mention of his wife, Lucius Malfoy's expression turned bland, but Severus was adept at judging his friend's reactions and knew a sour reaction lay behind his pleasant response. When they first cemented their friendship, Severus had been more than adept at the Dark Arts, but hopeless at the social graces. Lucius had taken the socially inept young man under his wing and taught him the rules of etiquette and the ways of the Pureblood high society.

The student had long ago surpassed the master in reading behind the innuendo and sly comments among their peers; despite his current financial circumstances the Snape family was one of the oldest in Britain and still retained some prestige. For some reason, the mention of his wife had annoyed Lucius, and much more than the apparent shortcomings of his son. Severus had never been fond of the icy blonde witch Lucius had contracted with, but they still treated one another with the deference due their respective places and had never quite come to drawing blood.

Lucius took his leave shortly thereafter, and once Severus had seen his guest out of the house he returned to the breakfast room and sought out his itinerant gardener. He noticed the evidence of her industry from the border of amputated branches stretching out towards the path. Within the central bank of rosebushes, he found Hermione still toiling away at some mass of greenery, her movements sluggish and mechanical.

He's gone," Severus called.

The girl glanced up, nodded and carefully placed her knife down on the stained marble bench. Moving slowly, she stood and made her way towards him, weaving slightly from side to side on the leaf-strewn path.

Severus frowned at her. "Are you unwell?"

"I'm hungry," she admitted. "What time is it?"

"Late for lunch," he admitted, noting her color with some concern. Her cheeks were red, but the rest of her face was alarmingly pale. The thick plait down her back had loosened to the point of uselessness and the wild curls were dark and damp as they clung to her neck.

"You are suffering from heat exhaustion, Miss Granger," he informed her shortly.

One hand, clad in a tattered dragonhide glove, waved negligently. "I just need some water," she murmured.

She plodded past him, swaying, and although he was sure she would faint and he'd be put to the bother of catching her, she continued into the house under her own power. The moment she approached the breakfast table Bitta appeared with a tray of cold fruit, small sandwiches, and a carafe of water. The elf made a scolding noise as the girl attempted to lift the carafe and took it away before it could be spilled, pouring it into the waiting glass. Hermione's hands shook badly as she tilted the glass back and drained it.

Still fussing, Bitta got her unwelcome charge seated and served with a few choice morsels from the luncheon tray. An unanticipated sense of responsibility nagged at Severus as he watched the exhausted girl – no, young woman – pick listlessly at the food before her. She did not look up as he cleared his throat.

"When you've finished here, I expect you to take a bath and go to bed. You look terrible."

"Yes, sir," she answered, in the most subdued voice he'd yet heard from her.

No further words were exchanged while Severus helped himself to a sandwich and surreptitiously made sure his companion ate enough food to restore her overtaxed body. For a Gryffindor, her dissembling this morning had been excellent. She had maintained her subdued demeanor and continued her labors until informed the danger had passed. Any other student would have lost patience and come to see if the unexpected guest had left rather than carrying on, almost to the point of causing herself damage. Perhaps Lucius was correct. The girl had promise, as long as her hand wasn't up in the air.

25 June, 1998

As Lucius Malfoy had predicted, two days later another visitor arrived at Snape Manor, announced by the silvery gong and then an impatient fist pounding on the solid door. The master of the house descended to the entry hall as Whitlock admitted an Auror in official robes.

"You need to beat that elf more often, Snape," the man declared in greeting. "He might be more punctual in opening the damned door."

"My elves do as they are told," Severus returned sharply, "and they don't let any riff-raff in the door until they're told."

"Right, then. I'm Phillip Pennifield, from the Auror department. I'm here to ask you for an official statement regarding the attack on Hogwarts."

"Are you?" he drawled, giving the man's uniform a significant glance. "I would never have guessed. Please, come into the drawing room."

Pennifield did not rate an offer of tea, although he was shown to the same chair Lucius Malfoy had occupied two days earlier. He commandeered the low table for his notes and began asking questions while a Quick Quotes quill scratched busily across the parchments.

In a bored voice, Severus relayed his official version of the attack on Hogwarts. He had been busily restocking his storeroom in preparation for the end of term exams while his student assistant readied ingredients for the next day's classes. After catching a glimpse of Death Eaters running through the hallways, he had decided that discretion was required, and promptly took a back entrance out of the school.

"Are you sure they were really Death Eaters?" Pennifield asked with a smirk.

"I didn't stop any and ask for identification, if that's what you mean," Severus retorted.

"This... student assistant. Was she Hermione Granger, by any chance?"

Severus frowned. "Yes," he allowed, watching the quill skitter across the parchment, leaving behind black trails of his words.

"Don't suppose you know where she's got to, do you?" The auror's voice was casual, but Severus was instantly wary.

"You see," continued Pennifield, "she's listed as missing, and her parents have lodged a protest at the Ministry, so my supervisors are hoping you've got her here at your home."

"Where did you hear that?" he asked, wondering if Malfoy Junior had been petulant enough to spread rumors to the wrong people.

"Oh, the Ministry has its sources," was the blithe answer.

"As a matter of fact, yes, my apprentice is here. I was worried for her safety, considering everything, and thought it best to bring her along."

"You were contacted by the Ministry several days ago. Why didn't you volunteer this information at the time?"

"The owl from the Ministry simply asked that I make myself available for giving a statement at some later date. I communicated my willingness to do so. I was not aware that sheltering my apprentice was a crime, nor that she was listed as missing. If you're here to take a statement, please do so. If you have a charge to make, I suggest you get a senior Auror to do it properly and cease fannying about with vague insinuations."

Pennifield chuckled rather than taking offense. "No need to worry about that, Professor. Though I must ask you why you haven't sent her home?"

"She is a Muggle-born," Severus answered with as much pomposity as he could muster. "She simply would not be safe at her family home."

More scratches occurred as the Auror used a separate quill to make additional notes on the pages. "May I speak to her?" he asked absently.

"Of course," he replied, not fooled in the least. "Let me just fetch her."

Fortunately, Hermione was easily found in the kitchen, surrounded by soap making paraphernalia on one of Bitta's work counters. The elf herself was maintaining a monologue of complaints while Hermione ignored her.

"Come with me, Miss Granger, and by all that's holy keep your mouth shut," he ordered.

Wide-eyed, Hermione had no choice but to accompany the professor, considering the frighteningly strong grip he took on her upper arm as he marched her towards the drawing room. Once she had been introduced to the Auror, her further participation was obviously not necessary as Snape answered most of the questions put to her and cut her off the few times she did attempt to speak. The long fingers around her arm would surely leave bruises as they squeezed tightly each time she opened her mouth.

Auror Pennifield eventually gathered up his parchments, vanished his quills back into a pocket and gave her a genteel bow as he excused himself. Still caught in a death grip, Hermione had no choice but to follow Snape as he saw his guest to the door and made sure he'd left before finally releasing her.

'We're doomed," Hermione said in a hollow voice, rubbing her arm gingerly. "If that's the caliber of Aurors the Ministry is relying on to defeat Voldemort, we might as well give up now."

Snape made an impatient noise. "That was a Death Eater, Miss Granger. One of the more recent acquisitions, and eager to flex what little power he has."

She looked at him, startled. "Oh. I should have known, I suppose. He certainly didn't seem very concerned."

"Yes. Oh," he mocked her. "I could have brought you in here with a leash around your neck and he'd not have batted an eye. His report will read exactly what it should read."

"Won't someone higher suspect something? Kingsley Shacklebolt is still an Auror, isn't he?"

"Yes. But Shacklebolt doesn't have enough influence to override McTavish or his bullyboys like Pennifield. And you forget that few in the Ministry knew I was – am – a Death Eater. To most, I'm simply a horrid teacher. Dumbledore saw to it I was never accused of supporting Voldemort during his first rise."

"Wait a minute. You knew he was coming today? Why didn't you tell me?"

"It was none of your concern," Snape told her shortly. "I handled it."

"You handled it," Hermione repeated in disbelief. "How was I supposed to know how to handle it? I had no warning."

A scowl creased Snape's face, one that had made students cower for years. "You forget yourself. This is my business. It's not necessary..."

"The hell it's not! How stupid do you think I am?"

"Not stupid, Miss, Granger. Naive. Dangerously so."

"I wouldn't be naive if you and Dumbledore would stop hoarding your information like a goblin with his gold," Hermione retorted sharply.

"It isn't necessary for you to know..."

"Yes it is!" she cut him off yet again. "It IS necessary! You need to let me know what you're planning. I'm not saying you should tell me who you meet or where you go when you leave me here alone. But you do need to let me know what a kind of a situation you're setting up before you thrust me into it.

"Whether you want to admit it or not, Professor, I'm involved in this – this – whatever it is. And if you don't let me in on things, I'm going to get us both killed because I don't know what's what!"

Severus glared at her and inhaled sharply, most likely to shout at her.

"Or more likely," she continued darkly, "you'll be killed and I'll be passed around like a bottle of Old Ogden's."

The breath left his chest like a balloon deflating, and the majority of his indignation went with it. Damn, but he hated someone making a devastatingly good point.

"You are correct," he admitted heavily. He took another breath, straightening his posture and returning to the cool demeanor that served him so well. "It seems I owe you an apology, Miss Granger. I'm accustomed to working in shadows... This is a new situation for me."

"So you'll talk to me?" she questioned hesitantly.

"Yes, we'll talk. At dinner, tonight. I have several things to accomplish yet today," he added, tugging at the cuffs of his frock coat, "and if I'm not mistaken your soap may be seizing even as we speak. If Bitta hasn't thrown it all out, that is."

Only habit kept him from shaking his head at the sudden 'eep' she made as she bolted for the kitchen to rescue her concoction from neglect and Bitta's uncertain mercy.


	7. Communication

25 June 1998, continued

Shortly after six that evening, Severus Snape returned to his home and went in search of his reluctant houseguest. The breakfast room was dim, now that the sun was in the wrong quarter, but evidence of her continued activity was revealed by the vase of roses in the middle of the table, along with a stack of foolscap held down by a tarnished silver inkwell. He glanced at the top sheet, but it held nothing more important than the details on the soap Hermione had been making earlier in the day. It was, however, the sign of a serious researcher - meticulous notes of method and measurements, ready to be annotated with the results of her efforts as a reference for future work.

As he returned the inkwell back to its original position, the paper edges ruffled slightly from the evening breeze that wafted through the wide-open French doors. The draft brought in the cooler evening air and the scent of green, growing things from the wilderness that was the back garden, washing away the stale, dusty taste that had permeated the house.

Long ingrained habit prompted him to reach for the levers, intent on closing the blasted things, but the tingle of active wards reminded him that the security of the house remained intact regardless of the open doors. Just this morning he'd found his bedroom windows open to the early morning air and yet another rose on his dresser. Fortunately his windows faced towards the west, and the flower a mere bud in a small, masculine vase. For a person who had vowed to stay out of his way, Miss Granger was making her presence far too apparent.

Miss Granger was not to be found in the kitchens either, but more signs of her activities were cooling on one of Bitta's kitchen counters. The girl had unearthed an ancient wooden mold from somewhere and it lay under a thick towel, its contents slowly changing from a smooth, fragrant puddle to a large block of fine soap. Despite the lapse of attention it had endured during its creation, Severus could not detect any flaw. Bitta shot him a look from her worktable, but apparently she had not found anything amiss with the batch, either, and was put out about it.

"When will dinner be ready?" he asked, fully aware of the fact that Bitta also disliked her owner to be in the kitchen when she was working.

"One hour, Master."

"Very well. Where is the girl?"

"Coming down the stairs, Master."

He could have waited, he supposed, but he moved through the rooms between quickly enough to intercept the girl before she reached the bottom step.

"Miss Granger, dinner will be ready in approximately an hour. You have that much of my time, and no more, to indulge your questions. I suggest you confine your endless curiosity to the matters at hand."

She took a breath, as if to speak, but merely looked at him from under lowered brows and clasped her fingers together in front in an obvious effort to control any temper flares. Severus moved to one side and indicated she was to proceed him, a gesture she obeyed without argument.

Once they reached the breakfast room again, Severus pulled out a chair and sat, steepling his fingers together in a patient pose. After a momentary hesitation, the girl joined him, sitting opposite.

Severus made no opening comment but sat, waiting, and was forced to control his expression when Miss Granger refused to play into his tactics and be intimidated; indeed, her features remained closed as if she expected no more from him.

"Professor," she began, "I have been in this house, by my calculations, for eleven days. In that time, your predictions have been woefully wrong. Dumbledore is not coming to whisk me off someplace safe, nor send you any information or instructions. The two of us are stuck with each other for the foreseeable future, and if you don't stop acting as though you're supervising a student with detention, we're both likely to end up very dead."

"Considering the alternatives, my dear," he emphasized with a deliberate leer, "I don't think you have any cause to complain of your treatment."

She gave him a level and surprisingly penetrating look. "You're deliberately misunderstanding me, Professor. I'm not complaining about my treatment, I'm objecting to the lack of information. You know very well I was to have joined the Order right after we left Hogwarts. I was very much looking forward to it, and the timing of You-Know-Who's attack was very inconvenient."

"It's not a social club."

"No, but it is a vital information network. Now, however, you're effectively out in the cold and I've no choice but to tag along."

Severus blinked. Since the day Hogwarts had fallen, he had devoted his every waking moment towards rediscovering a connection to the Order. He had never before been so cut off from Albus Dumbledore and his allies, and the gnawing realization that he had no other contacts was unsettling. It was even worse to have this young woman sum up his situation so succinctly.

"Have you been able to locate any hints of where the Order has gone to ground?" Hermione asked, pinpointing his exact place of discomfort.

"No," he was forced to admit, and then elaborated. "I have put forth the rumor that I have a personal vendetta against Remus Lupin, but none of my less savory contacts has elicited so much as a sniff of him. One visit to the Ministry was all I dared, but Arthur Weasley has cleaned off his desk without leaving any explanation. There are approximately the same number of adherents to either side of this war in the Auror ranks, so I dared not go in search of either Tonks or Shacklebolt."

"I suppose Weasleys Wizard Wheezes is out of the question," she observed.

Severus managed a bare nod rather than shuddering. "The Weasley twins are very likely under surveillance, as are most of the other high profile Order supporters. As for the lower profile members, such as Arabella Figg, I have little knowledge and less opportunity to contact them."

"All right, then," Hermione continued. "You have no way of contacting the Order, so we'll leave that for now. I do have some other questions I'd like to ask."

He nodded his acquiescence, but her first question was not quite what he expected. "What is your position in Vold – You Know Who's organization?"

"What difference does that make?"

"If you're a highly ranked member, you have more wriggle room. Leniency may be more forthcoming if you did not follow his instructions exactly."

"Optimism is for those who have yet to be disillusioned, Miss Granger. The Dark Lord gave me a direct order. I must keep you here, in this house, or else I risk losing my rank and placement in the Death Eaters. If I had a choice, I'd have dropped you at the Burrow or at the Weasley twins' shop in Diagon Alley and washed my hands of you."

"And we both know you can't go within miles of the Burrow, even if they were living there, which I don't believe they are. Their sympathies and connection to Dumbledore and Harry are well known."

She bit her lip pensively, then gave him another of those level stares. "Does You-Know-Who trust you?" she asked candidly.

He gave it the courtesy of a moment's thought. "Likely more so now, than before. I was not informed of the attack on Hogwarts, yet I remained and joined his troops freely. More importantly, I captured a member of the opposition," and here he nodded towards his guest, "and made it clear what my intentions were."

"All right." She was exploring the boundaries of her situation, he realized. It would be interesting to see how she did so.

"What, exactly, do you do for the Death Eaters? As a potions master, I can hardly see you being sent out terrorizing Muggles. It doesn't seem like a reasonable use of your skills."

"Correct, as usual," he admitted. "I am a potions master; that is my role. I have supplied the usual tools of the trade, as well as odd special request."

"Then you can expect to need a fully functional lab, and soon, I suspect."

A comment that obvious needed no answer.

"What about my wand?" she asked suddenly.

"Out of the question," he replied, mentally giving her a point for the unexpected vector of inquiry – a common interrogation technique. "Your wand has the tattletale charm placed on it by Olivander when you bought it. Normally, the charm would be removed during your graduation ceremony."

"So you said before. But if there's a charm on the wands sold to Hogwarts students, how do you explain Harry getting a warning from Mafalda Hopkirk and the Improper Use of Magic office when Dobby was the one doing the magic in his house?"

"You are making the assumption that it should be one or the other. Do not forget that the Ministry is exceptionally paranoid about magic being revelation of magic to the Muggle world. The students' wands are charmed, and during your first year the Improper Use staff visit the homes of all Muggleborns to place additional detection charms. Those charms would be useless in a magical household, but then again there's no threat of exposure from those locations."

The girl muttered under her breath, but Severus could not make out any words other than a reference to flying monkeys. She shook her head slightly, but her slim fingers ticked against each other as she thought. As expected, her mouth opened again with more questions.

"Can you give me any assurances that this house is safe?"

He suppressed the urge to shift in his seat. "I have no intention of abusing you, Miss Granger. You have my word of honor, for what that's worth to you."

"I'm not worried about you, sir," she retorted in a voice that sounded as though she actually believed him. "I'm thinking more about Lucius Malfoy or any of your other…associates…dropping in when you're not at home."

That made some sense, actually, but she continued before he had a chance to reply. "For example, what sort of defenses does the house have? I recognized the Apparation Chamber when we came in, and I realize there must be wards of some type around the house….

His innate suspicion came to the fore, but he had to admit it was a valid question. "There are Apparation wards around the entirety of the house," he admitted. "They're not on par with those at Hogwarts – they cannot prevent anyone Apparating in or out, but they will redirect those not keyed into the wards to a secure holding room in the dungeon."

She blinked in surprise. "You have a dungeon?"

Severus made a small scoffing noise. "It was intended to be second wine cellar, but all the wine was consumed long ago. The lock is spell-proof, though. No one can leave the room unless released by myself or one of the elves."

"That's good, then, as far as the house is concerned. What about the grounds?"

"One may Apparate out, but Apparating in will direct the wizard to the Apparation Chamber…" A suspicion formed, causing him to frown thoughtfully. "You do not possess the ability to Apparate, do you, Miss Granger?"

Hermione laughed, sounding almost natural. "I was supposed to take the lessons last spring, but I had another class I wanted to take instead. Mr. Weasley said he'd take me to get my license as soon as school was over, but that didn't work out quite right, either. Don't suppose you want to teach me, do you?"

"Certainly not," he retorted. "And I believe your time is up," he announced, seeing Bitta advancing towards the table with a trail of dishes, silverware, and other accoutrements floating behind her.

The girl was mercifully silent while the table was set and the food brought in from the kitchens. She did make the mistake of attempting to help the house elves arrange things, only to receive an irritated hiss from both master and servant when she got in the way. After that, she sat, meek and quiet, until Severus served himself a slice of roast and then pushed the platter towards her side of the table.

While he ate, he observed the girl. She was obviously thinking of something, and appeared heavily preoccupied, all but talking to herself as she cut her meat into neat bites, then left the laden fork in mid-air as she stared off into some realm generated from her own contemplations.

"What is it, Miss Granger?" he asked abruptly. "You are obviously close to imploding over something."

She glanced up, startled, but barely hesitated before plunging ahead gamely. "What really happens at a Death Eater meeting?"

Severus sneered, irritated that she would make such a sensible beginning and then delve for salacious details. "If you want to know what it is to be a victim, Miss Granger, I can oblige you…"

Her cheeks flushed a bit, but her expression was horrified. "No, none of that. I mean, what kind of business do you discuss? Does You-Know-Who tell you his plans, or just give orders? Do you meet regularly, or just on demand?"

Mollified, he settled and reconsidered the question. "The meetings are regular, but without a set pattern. There's the obligatory harangue against the Ministry, Muggles, and Dumbledore, usually. Then a glowing projection of our glorious future, followed by progress reports and assignments. By and large it's very much like a business meeting, with rather more arse kissing and the occasional spot of torture thrown in. The competition for advancement is more cut-throat as well."

"Literally, I suppose," Hermione observed.

"Yes."

"So – all those rumors of debauchery...?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "Greatly exaggerated, but it is true that, on very rare occasions, the Dark Lord allows the baser urges to be indulged. Such as when I laid claim to you."

Rather than respond, the girl frowned thoughtfully.

"Disappointed, Miss Granger?"

"No. Just thinking."

"Dare I ask?"

"It's just that there's a lot of rumors spread about You-Know-Who, and very few real facts. Has anyone in the Order ever done a full analysis on the war?"

Snape stared at her. "Analyze what, exactly, Miss Granger?"

"What his goals are – what his ultimate purpose might be."

"I think world domination covers it fairly comprehensively, Miss Granger."

"Does it?" she pressed, perfectly serious. "How is he going to administer his empire, once he wins it? When he takes over the Ministry, will he become the Minister of Magic? Dictator of Great Britain has a certain ring to it, I suppose, but he still needs to govern. It takes a lot of people to run a government efficiently."

"It hasn't been done yet."

"All right, to run it inefficiently then. But it still requires a hierarchy. A structure. Currently the Minister has several junior Ministers and Department Heads, right? That Fudge appoints in a council?"

"Approved by the Wizengamot, but yes."

"So, You Know Who takes over, and either gives the current government a 'do what I say or else' ultimatum or he puts in his own council of Ministers. Either way, he needs someone to oversee the operations."

He raised one eyebrow, and she gave him a dubious look.

"McNair, Crabbe and Goyle senior? As bureaucrats? Honestly. Even if he proves victorious in the war, without any casualties, the Dark Lord will soon find himself in need of more bodies, live bodies that is, to run things. Marcus Flint may be a dab hand with a Beater Bat, but I don't really see him as the type to run a Ministry department. He'd be about as effective as a Haggis juggler."

"Draco Malfoy takes orders well," Severus pointed out. "As do Gregory Goyle and Vincent Crabbe."

"They're eighteen years old, and complete idiots to boot. It boils down to the fact that the Dark Lord is going to need more people, and the Order really ought to be thinking about where those people might come from. You mentioned Mafalda Hopkirk's secretary is a sympathizer. Has anyone gone through the Ministry rolls and taken a hard look at who might have been recruited?"

"Who would do that?"

"Percy Weasley would be perfect, if he weren't too busy being a perfect Ministry flunky."

To be honest, Severus had never considered what the end result of the war might entail. He'd always been too concerned with the intricate plots and treacherous lifestyle of a spy to consider what the end of the war might bring, for either party. He knew that nearly every Pure Blood in England had come down on one side or the other, and those that remained an unknown factor were too few to make a difference.

When he repeated this aloud, Hermione merely nodded. "So, regardless of whatever silent supporters they have, the Death Eaters are vastly outnumbered by the average witch or wizard on the street, which is why his attacks are always hit and run. He can't afford any full scale attacks, because he hasn't the manpower to pull it off."

"So it seems to me that his talk about whole-sale Muggle slaughter is all balderdash, don't you agree?"

She received another partial shrug in reply. "The Magical community is vastly outnumbered, that is true," he said. "It has always been presented as a 'someday' plan – more of a campaign promise than a real commitment."

The girl nodded again. "As I see it, that could only be accomplished by either a slow, silent plot, that will go unnoticed by anyone, or else a very powerful blow that will wipe out everyone at once. Which he cannot pull off without first taking full control of the wizarding world.

"So, that takes us back to the first question. What is his ultimate goal, and how is he planning to get there? Has anyone in the Order spent any time analyzing the Dark Lord's plan?"

"Your question does not make any sense, Miss Granger."

With an air of a Head Girl tutoring a rather dense student, Hermione reached for the stack of parchment and ink-well that had been moved down the table. "I did a bit of research on military intelligence last summer, thinking that I'd be allowed to join the Order after my birthday. Silly me, but still..." Her tatty quill dipped in the tarnished silver well and quickly spelled out the word 'SALUTE' across the top of her page.

"Groveling on your knees is how the Dark Lord prefers to be saluted, Miss Granger." For his remark, Severus was rewarded with one of those looks that probably quelled her two male Griffindors, but had considerably less effect on the older man.

"Size, Activity, Location, Unit, Time, Equipment," she quoted, pointing at each letter in turn. "How many Death Eaters are there, really? What, exactly, are they doing? Actually," she continued, "I didn't find this quite as helpful. I mean, really, location hardly matters to wizards who can Apparate. Equipment doesn't mean anything, either, since we all have wands. Most of us, anyway," she added with some asperity.

"I've come up with a different one." Down the side of the parchment, she wrote seven letters.

"STOPACT?" Severus questioned.

"It's supposed to be an acronym that's easy to remember," she said. "But this works. Size, Training, Organization, Position, Activity, Communication, and Timeline. Size, for instance. How many Death Eaters are there? How many people in the Ministry are secret supporters of You-Know-Who?"

"I don't have any accurate figures on how many Death Eaters have been recruited," Snape admitted. "We're not all summoned at once, except on rare occasions. And there are a large number of supporters who have not taken the Mark, but are actively engaged in the service of the Dark Lord."

Rather than arguing, Hermione merely placed a question mark next to the 'S.'

"Training. How well trained are they? Bellatrix Lestrange and Dolohov, I'm familiar with." Severus noted she rubbed her stomach absently, and he was forcibly reminded that this girl he had been so dismissive of had already faced Death Eaters in pitched battle at an age where he had been worried about schoolyard bullies.

"The Inner Circle, which includes myself, the Lestranges and Lucius Malfoy, are all well trained, and powerful. However, we are by definition the elite. The majority are only average with a wand."

"So, a squad of heavy troops, perhaps thirty? And the rest are average." She made notes to the first two points, and continued to the next.

"Organization. Does Volde – the Dark Lord, does he have a chain of command? Or does he issue all orders himself?"

Snape frowned. "Pettigrew is his personal assistant, and he passes on many of the orders. When an action is ordered, one individual is put in charge of a handful of others."

"The same person all the time, or does it vary?"

"It varies. It is a mark of favor to be chosen to lead, and the competition for his favor is fierce."

"So there's no real organization to speak of? The top dogs like Lucius and yourself and the Lestranges, all jostling for supremacy?"

Severus nodded, but could understand why she seemed pleased. If the Dark Lord did not survive his battle with Potter, the Death Eaters would dissolve into a squabbling mess and be ineffective until one person wrested all the power to himself; the delay would be devastating. A small, satisfied grimace crossed his own face as he considered the likely outcome of such disorder.

"Position," she went on. "You mentioned supporters that didn't wear the Mark, but still worked for Voldemort." Severus did not chastise her for saying the name; she was on a roll.

Their dinners lay to one side, forgotten and growing cold, while Severus explained what he knew of the support structure the Dark Lord had amassed in the past few years. They touched on the current activities of those people, that being the 'A' in her anagram, and the 'C' of communications. She found it interesting that the average supporter had very few means of getting information to their Death Eater contact, which left information lying fallow that could have been vital.

She came to the last one. "Timeline. I imagine he's anxious to beat Harry as soon as possible, if only for the psychological impact."

Once again, Severus could not answer her question, but he had, in the last hour, moved beyond any reticence in telling Hermione Granger he didn't know something. He narrowed his eyes at the girl – no, young woman – sitting across from him. For the first time in ages, it seemed, his thoughts were finally dragging themselves into considering the future, not what had gone disastrously wrong. It was also blatantly obvious that Albus Dumbledore had been a fool to exclude her from the Order simply because she wasn't out of school yet. She was a powerhouse of deep thought.

"It's been very quiet since Hogwarts was invaded," she murmured thoughtfully. There's been nothing in the Prophet, other than recycled hysteria."

"No overt attacks, for a bit," he predicted. "Now that Dumbledore has been visibly routed from his stronghold, the Dark Lord will let the effect ripple through the wizarding world. He will let the general populous stew over that, to fear what he might do next.

"Do you have any idea what Dumbledore's plans are? I'm not asking what they are, just if you're aware of them or if the headmaster kept you in the dark."

"No. As you say, I have been deliberately excluded from the majority of the contingency planning. However, since we are guessing, I would venture that Professor Dumbledore knew he had to sacrifice Hogwarts."

The girl's eyes grew wide with shock. "What?"

"Hogwarts as a symbol is one thing," he elaborated, "but the reality was that the Dark Lord would always have known where he was, what he was doing. Now, as a veritable fugitive, he's free to fight the Dark Lord in a guerilla warfare, and not leave himself or his supporters out in the cold."

For a long moment she simply stared at him. "Dumbledore knew You-Know-Who was going to attack the school?" Her tone was incredulous.

"I learned it early this year, and the Headmaster was informed immediately. He has been expecting it for some time. There was a great deal of debate, but the decision was made to evacuate rather than fight."

Unaccountably, Hermione seemed to smolder with rage, but held herself impressively under control, only grinding out one word. "Why?"

"The wizarding public was highly alarmed when the Ministry announced the Dark Lord's return two years ago. However, in that time frame, the Order has done an excellent job of fighting the advance of Death Eaters. Too good, perhaps. The average wizard may be terrified, but they have every expectation that Dumbledore and Potter will save them.

"By letting Hogwarts fall, he has in fact improved his own position while giving both his opponents and the wizarding public at large the impression that he has been grievously harmed. This will give the Ministry a swift kick in the complacency."

She shuddered, her hand clenching the quill tightly. "That makes sense, I suppose." Her voice was arctic, but she pressed on, as though ignoring a very unpleasant mess. "What about the Order? You're still valuable to them, aren't you?"

"I should think so. My position within the Death Eaters is nearly the only first-hand knowledge available to the Order." His voice lacked conviction as he remembered the Black house so thoroughly cleaned out of all details of the order. It should not have surprised him that Dumbledore had other informants, but it shook his sense of self to realize how much he had not been told.

"So, here we sit. You're cut off from the Order, who may or may not have any use for you any longer. I'm here, unwilling and unwelcome guest, and possible hostage. And we're stuck with each other for however long it takes the Order to get their act together and remember we exist?"

Appetite gone, Severus tossed his serviette on the remains of his dinner and stood up. "That is an accurate and succinct summary, Miss Granger. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be in my lab." The girl nodded absently, still looking at her parchment of notes, but before he could reach for it she moved it over the candle flame and let it burn to a curlicue of ash.

It was not until after he was long gone, the table cleared and Hermione had buried herself in her book on household charms, that she realized he'd shown her more courtesy in the duration of one meal than he'd exhibited in the last seven years. Adages regarding old dogs and changing spots ran through her head, and she could not repress a snort of amusement. Ron and Harry would never believe it.

Author's note:

First of all, I wish to express, to those who are still actually reading this story, my profound apologies for taking so long to get this next chapter out. My only excuse – but a good one – is the fact that I accepted a promotion at work about six months ago, and only in the last three weeks have I been able to stop doing both jobs rather than just one.

I also want to say a huge thank you to my beta, Nancy, who has nagged and held my hand and threatened to bullwhip me if I didn't get my butt in gear and keep writing.

And finally, if you don't believe there's such a thing as Haggis Juggling, well, just Google it. They're funny, but not very good. Apparently a haggis is very hard to juggle.


	8. A Word

Please note: The Souvenir is compliant with Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, but not with Half Blood Prince. Snape is a Pure Blood, Albus Dumbledore is alive, everyone went to school through Seventh Year, yada, yada, yada..

Standard disclaimer: Harry Potter is the property of J.K. Rowling and her publishers, no money was made off of this, etc.

28 June, 1998

The next few days passed without any significant friction between Hermione Granger and Severus Snape. The man was nearly sociable, passing the marmalade when requested and sharing out sections of the Daily Prophet over the teapot when he'd finished reading them. He would pass the sheets over with vague commentary on the headlines, which no longer dealt with the Hogwarts disaster but had moved on to other subjects.

Hermione would read the same pages, appalled at the level of journalism that now merited the front page. Most of it dealt with wild speculation on the Dark Lord, the Dementors, and whether or not Gilderoy Lockhart would be released from St. Mungo's to add his considerable skills to the war effort. She voiced her opinion that Lockhart would undoubtedly announce a sudden need to hunt wild bunyips in Australia, a received a random, non-committal noise from her table mate. That in itself was the usual response when she read aloud particularly idiotic bits, along with her own varied opinions of outrage or disgust. The only time he actually said anything at all was when she commented on the continued absence of Harry Potter or Albus Dumbledore, and then it was usually a request that she cease fussing and pass the scones.

Snape was less sanguine, however, when a reporter bullied her way past Whitlock that afternoon.

Entering the breakfast room through the French doors, Hermione's first indication that something was amiss was the sight of Whitlock as he ran down the hallway towards the kitchen, twisting his ears and banging his head intermittently on the wall as he fled. Despite showing admirable coordination, the elf did not cease when she called out to him, and so she laid down her new hat and dragonhide gloves before venturing further into the house to find out what, exactly, was going on.

"And this must be your apprentice," was the first thing she heard as she set foot in the entryway. The voice was as heavy and suggestive as perfumed oil, and nearly as pervasive. "I'm Scarlet Morrible," the woman announced, smiling widely at Hermione as she captured the younger woman's hand and shook it briskly. At first glance Hermione had compared her to Rita Skeeter, but a second look placed her rather older, with heavier features that more closely resembled a hyena. Her mouth had more teeth than was strictly necessary, which went far too well with the avariciousness in her eyes as she inspected Hermione's solid, utilitarian gown.

When she finally released Hermione's hand, leaving the girl feeling vaguely grateful to get it back, Morrible smoothed her own fur-rimmed robes before retrieving her wand. A quick flick later she had conjured a cozy settee on the worn marble floor, dead in the center of the room, then sat down and patted the tapestry cover in a clear indication that Hermione should join her. Despite the inherent rudeness of performing magic in a stranger's home without asking, the woman looked as comfortable as if she were planning on staying for tea and afters.

With a wave of his empty hand, Snape called over a spindly armchair and sat down with an air of put-upon patience. His normal scowl morphed to something that more closely resembled a ministry middle-man with far too much paperwork waiting for him, but faced with a duty that simply must be endured. He still appeared to be in a temper of some sort, but the Potions Master feared by every Hogwarts student – at least the non-Slytherin students – strangely seemed no more intimidating than Percy Weasley in a bureacratic snit.

"Why don't you come sit by me, darling. Your master – do you call him Master, or something else? - was just telling me what a wonderful student you were in school."

The look Snape shot her suggested he had been saying no such thing.

Not sure what else to do, Hermione folded her hands and sat on the far end of the settee, diplomatically half-way between Snape's chair and the reporter. "I still call him 'Professor,' actually," she said meekly.

The hyena woman blinked, her smile growing even wider, if it were possible.

"That's right, he was your professor, wasn't he?" A quill appeared in her hand, scratching away on a pad of parchment much faster than any human could possibly write. Morrible kept a firm hold on it, however, possibly in an attempt to maintain the illusion that it wasn't a Qwik Quotes quill. Hermione knew better; she'd seen them up close before.

"Tell me, Apprentice Granger, what does your family think of you being here by yourself?"

"What?"

"Say 'pardon,' not 'what,' dear. Your parents. They're supportive of your choice of career, then? They are aware that Mud-ggleborns usually aren't awarded masters, regardless of their qualifications?"

Hermione sputtered, only to be cut off. "My apprentice does not need to continue to her Masters, if she does not wish to do so," Snape interjected. Gone, however, was the deep, smooth voice he usually projected, replaced by a slightly ingratiating tenor that scraped and irritated on the consonants. "Merely studying under a Master such as myself will advance her in nearly any future employment she should choose."

"Yes, right. Tell me, Professor. You're the only adult member of the staff who didn't escape through the dreaded Chamber of Secrets under the school. How DID you manage to escape the Death Eaters? I'm sure you must be terribly brave?"

Remarkable, Hermione thought. He didn't even sneer once as he repeated the story of himself and his student assistant being cut off from the evacuation route, hiding until the wards fell, and then Apparating out. Snape went on to drop the name of the Auror and the other Ministry officials to whom he had reported the same story, somehow insinuating that he was on particularly good terms with those men.

"Yes, excellent," Morrible gushed, as though praising a rather slow First Year. "Tell me, Professor, do you think your family history will be a disadvantage to you continuing your employment at the school? After all, your..Grandfather, wasn't it?.. was a known supporter of Grindelwald, and was killed during a raid on this very house."

It was Hermione's turn to control her expression as she avoided the urge to stare outright at her benefactor. Indeed, the reporter was not looking at the man either, but instead had her greedy gaze fixed on Hermione's face, watching for a reaction of any sort.

"Yes, my Grandfather was a supporter of Grindelwald. My father was only fifteen when this happened. Our family was stripped of most of our assets, as you can see." Snape's voice quavered every so slightly, as though painful memories were besieging him. "I can only hope this will have little bearing on my future employment, whether it is with Hogwarts or elsewhere; my Mastership was earned after those events as well."

"So, you bring your assistant to your family home and make her your apprentice. You, girl. How is it, being the Professor's apprentice?"

Stammering, Hermione managed to answer that it was an honor to be a Potion Master apprentice – after all, Professor Snape had never taken an apprentice before, not that she knew of. "He's really quite brilliant," she added, attempting to sound vapid. Morrible's predatory smile returned, but it was the twitch at the corner of Snape's mouth that confirmed she had succeeded.

For the next few minutes Morrible asked slanted and leading questions, while Snape used words and fidgety body language to create the illusion of a completely different man. If Hermione had not known better, she would have assumed the man was barely competent at his job and had earned tenure through extensive arse-kissing and sheer dumb luck. His ability to weave fact and pure fiction at the spur of the moment was nothing less than amazing.

Equally amazing was the way Snape allowed Hermione more and more free rein to respond as she would, with only the occasional quirk of an eyebrow to let her know she'd done well. She was actually starting to enjoy the verbal fencing when the reporter turned to Snape with a decisive flounce. "Really, Professor," she gushed in the same enthusiastic manner she'd used throughout the interview. "You don't mind if I have a word with Hermione here, girl to girl?"

"Regrettably, Madam, I'm afraid I must decline," he told her as he stood, his black robes flowing about him as he adjusted the cuffs . "Miss Granger is my apprentice and I have work for her. If you have no further questions, we must be about it. Are those newts dissected and pickled yet?"

"Not yet, sir," Hermione jumped to her feet as she replied.

"Then please see our guest out and get back to work. I want them all done by the end of the day."

"Yes, Professor," she replied to his retreating back, bobbing her head in obedience. For just an instant, reality seemed to slip sideways as she superimposed the version of truth being presented to the reporter and the outside world over the fact that Snape hated having her in his lab at all, not to mention they didn't actually HAVE any newts, pickled or otherwise, on hand. Added to these two realities was the façade presented to Voldemort and Lucius Malfoy, that she was an abused sex object, and her mind was beginning to swim as she tried to keep all three straight in her head. She spared a thought for the way Severus Snape had been playing this same sort of game for years.

"This way, please," she murmured to Scarlet Morrible, who was still scribbling away in her tablet.

Instead of getting up, the woman whipped out her wand and pointed it at her. "_Priori Consuet_…."

Draco Malfoy might have been one of the few other people who had ever seen Hermione advance that quickly. Fortunately for Madam Morrible, Hermione's hand slapped at the wand itself rather than the wielder.

"How DARE you!"

Peripherally she was aware of Snape's rapid return, but her wrath was focused on the reporter.

"You…bloody reporters, always think you can do whatever you want, write whatever lies you want…"

"Oh, come off it, dearie," returned the older woman, remarkably composed. "An attractive young witch in a hole like this, no one around but the house elves, you think he's really itching for a little bit of all right?" Ignoring the developing glare from Snape, she looked him up and down with an assessing eye. "If he hasn't yet, he will. Apprentice, my arse."

Snape moved to Hermione's side, close enough that he could step in front of her if he chose. "I will have you know, madame, that Miss Granger truly is one of the better students to leave Hogwarts. It would be a breach of ethics for a Master to exploit an apprentice in such a vile way." From the way he said it, Hermione could almost think he believed it himself.

Morrible obviously did not. "Pull the other one, Professor," she sneered. "Masters have been shagging their apprentices since Merlin was a tot."

"I fail to see how that entitles you to violate Miss Granger's privacy."

"Her privacy?" Morrible hooted. "She's a Mudblood!" The word came out as if it were synonymous with 'whore.'

"I do not care if Miss Granger has been entertaining her house's entire Quidditch team. It is still none of my business, nor yours, Madam Morrible. It most certainly is not something your readers deserve to know."

He advanced towards the woman, his pleasant voice sliding back into the dangerous tones Hermione was more familiar with. Suddenly the nebbish teacher was gone, replaced by the cold hissing of a roused Slytherin. "I suggest you leave, before I demonstrate a few things that you will not find on my CV."

The woman paled abruptly, revealing the fact that she was perfectly aware of the unsavory rumors regarding Severus Snape. With gratifying haste, she thrust her quill and tablet into her handbag before scurrying to the door of the Apparation chamber. Hermione followed her, fully prepared to push her out the doorway if required. Morrible left willingly, but the hateful grimace she threw over her shoulder towards Hermione and the entire Snape Manor made it clear she was displeased. Hermione said nothing, waiting until the reporter Disapparated with a crack before shutting the door.

Snape glowered at the door. The heavy metal locks obediently clicked, and the heavy wooden bar, black with age, slid over into the door jamb. Satisfied, Snape nodded and turned away in a skirl of black. Just as quickly he turned back, his attention fixed this time on his counterfeit apprentice. Hermione frowned back at him, which was obviously the wrong thing to do, as his expression changed to one of impatience.

"You do realize you could have seized that chance to escape this house."

"Pardon?" Hermione said deliberately; he did not miss it, and the corner of his mouth twitched again.

"You could have asked her for help," he explained with feigned patience. "She might have helped you get away."

"It didn't occur that she would even consider helping me, honestly," Hermione replied. "Even if I had, where would I have gone? You don't really think she would have just dropped me off at Weasley's Wheezes with a ta-ra and let it go?" She gave an unladylike snort. "Besides, escaping would have just set Draco Malfoy after me again, and Voldemort would have punished you for being careless."

One black eyebrow rose. "Foolish Gryffindor," he intoned, before turning away again.

This time, Hermione did not resist temptation, and stuck her tongue out at the departing man.

30 June, 1998

The article, when it arrived in the Daily Prophet two days later, was no worse or better than Severus had expected. It was biased, and he was showcased as completely lacking any heroics or sense of responsibility to anything but his own self-preservation. Veiled references were made in regards to his family history and bankrupt finances. The only new information was the revelation, from 'an anonymous but highly reliable source' that Snape's grandmother had been the cause of the family's downfall. Charlotte Von Dracken, the daughter of a Russian wizard, had incited a duel between the Snape heir and his younger brother. The elder had prevailed, and the younger had disappeared shortly thereafter. Charlotte herself had also vanished, ostensibly murdered by the same man she'd driven mad with jealously, when her son had been a boy.

He left the paper on Miss Granger's side of the table and turned to the other sections. As usual, the girl appeared a short time later and all but pounced upon it, absently pouring herself a cup of tea and serving herself from the charmed toast rack. One of the few things they had not argued about was the hot toast they both preferred.

One-half a slice later, she made her first comment. ""That must have been some magic."

He made a mildly inquisitive hum, but did not emerge from his reading.

"Your grandmother being murdered when she was a young mother, yet sitting for a portrait when she's gone gray and wrinkly."

Obviously she'd gotten to the bit about his grandmother, and made the assumption that the portrait in the sitting room was the same woman. It was a logical conclusion, if only because of the silky Russian hound in the pose. "Don't say that in front of her," he warned. "She's been silent for the last twenty-five years and I'd like to keep her that way. All I need is another Madam Black on my wall."

Hermione wasn't listening; she'd continued reading, which meant she'd likely gotten to the bit that referred to his attractive, barely-of-age apprentice -- not that she was listed as an officially bound apprentice, according to the Alchemists and Potion Makers Guild. There was, however, a short history of her less-than-stellar dating career. This included Victor Krum, Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and several other boys the girl probably couldn't match faces and names to if she were required to do so.

A moment after that, she folded the paper, carefully but rather more emphatically than necessary, and pulled her breakfast plate closer.

Snape peered over his own page. "Yes, I noticed Miserable Morrible did not paint you as quite the innocent victim," he remarked blandly.

"She's as bad as Rita Skeeter. I wouldn't be surprised if they're related."

"Possibly. I suspect the Prophet breeds them in the attic."

"Well, if she comes by again, I've got a jar with her name on it," she muttered around a savagely bit corner of toast.

The rest of the page came down, revealing Snape's long features. "Do explain that remark, Miss Granger," he ordered in no uncertain terms.

Rather deliberately, the girl sipped her tea before answering. "You might remember that Rita Skeeter published a load of tripe during the Tri-Wizards Tournament?"

He nodded.

"Well, it turns out the nasty sneak is an unregistered Animagus. She turned into a beetle, which allowed her to eavesdrop on conversations all over Hogwarts."

Black eyes narrowed at this new information, but he refused to be distracted from his original query. "And?"

"And…I caught her. In a jar. And kept her there all summer."

Caught off guard, Severus let out a rich, if unwilling, chuckle. When she looked up in surprise, he raised his teacup to her in an ironic salute.

"Absolutely Slytherin of you, Miss Granger. Brilliant."

Looking relieved, she smiled back and resumed eating her breakfast. Snape finished his paper, checked the small gold watch in his waistcoat pocket, and then stood.

"I will be in the laboratory, if you have need of me."

"And I'll be waging war on your garden, if you need me," she replied airily. "Just as I did yesterday, and probably shall be tomorrow."

He paused, debating the wisdom of telling her the piece of news that had not been delivered by owl this morning. It had irritated him, and instinct told him he could expect a similar reaction from his guest. Not telling her, however, was likely to provoke as strong a reaction, as he had only recently agreed to share such things. Either way, she would be put out – it would be best to have that ire directed to the proper source.

"Miss Granger -- I received a note, early this morning."

Her brown eyes glanced up inquisitively. "From whom?"

"No signature was included, but it had only a single word written on it."

"And?" she mimicked him archly.

Severus Snape did not sigh, but the effect was the same. "It was Albus Dumbledore's writing. It said 'patience.'"

"Patience?" she echoed. "That's all?"

"No more."

"Are you're sure it was from Dumbledore?"

He made a grimace of distaste. "It was unmistakable."

"Let me guess – it burst into flame after you read it."

This time, he really did sigh. "Yes. Accompanied by a burst of phoenix song."

The girl went absolutely still for just a moment -- not nearly the amount of time it took to count to ten, however – before she stood abruptly and threw her serviette on the table.

"If Professor Dumbledore thinks I'm going to sit here with my hands folded in my lap, waiting for him to tell me what to do, he obviously hasn't been paying attention for the last seven years."

He raised one eyebrow at the unexpectedly vehement response. ""I was under the impression that you were the sensible one in your trio, Miss Granger. Perhaps I was mistaken."

"I am the sensible one," she retorted. "But just because I don't believe in rash action does not mean I will settle for inaction. Dumbledore has a habit of keeping people in the dark, and Harry's the one who usually ends up getting bitten in the arse by it."

Interesting, he thought. "You disapprove of Dumbledore's handling of your classmate? Tell me, when did this miraculous change of mind come about?"

"Just after Fifth years Owls and a little trip through the Ministry," she told him in a low voice. "One that left me laid up the hospital wing, taking potions every hour to keep my insides from falling out."

"I see."

"Do you?" she asked caustically. The look he received was not one he was accustomed to seeing from the usually respectful student across the table. "If you are, then you're the only one. Headmaster Dumbledore apparently believes his own reputation for omniscience, regardless of all the mistakes he's made with Harry. The only thing worse is Harry's inability to see those mistakes objectively."

"Potter is notoriously emotional," Severus observed, unable to resist the chance to mock the alleged Boy-Who-Lived."

"And you, of course, are completely neutral on the subject of either of them."

Unaccountably stung, Severus shot a sharp look at the girl. Young woman, he amended mentally, taking another appraising look at her. Hermione Granger was no longer a child. Minerva McGonagall had cited her favorite student's case when objecting to the arbitrary cut-off date for admission to students to Hogwarts, which meant that Granger was a full eighteen years old. Possibly even more, considering the Time Turner she'd been allowed during her third year to allow her to make it to all the extra classes she'd taken.

"My neutrality has nothing to do with Potter's arrogance."

"You unbelievable hypocrite," she shot back scathingly. "You and your Slytherins were nothing if not arrogant. You let Draco Malfoy strut around the school insulting people, and then you punished anyone who stood up to him and his pack of bullies. You encouraged the worst of behaviors and rewarded them with points and special favors while carrying out a personal vendetta against a boy young enough to be your son."

"How dare you speak to me like that! Fifty points…"

Her bitter laughter cut through his words, even as he realized how ridiculous he sounded. "How dare I, Professor? How dare I survive in a hostile world, where people like you look down on people like me for any number of arbitrary reasons? Or how dare I point out your own inequities when it comes to Harry Potter? Make a list, Professor, and I'll tell you how I dare!"

With stiff strides the chit turned her back on him and grabbed the hat and gloves that rested at the far end of the table. "If you'll excuse me, _Professor_," and the word twisted with her sarcasm, "I think I need some fresh air."

&&&H&P&H&G&S&S&&&

Striding angrily through the garden, Hermione could barely still her lips to contain the words that threatened to burst forth. She wasn't sure with which person she was the most upset. Severus Snape was certainly on the list, for being a stuck-up Pure Blood with his Harry Potter blinders; Albus Dumbledore, with his generous supply of sherbet lemons and tight-fisted reserves of information; her best friend Harry and his inability to think outside of his Gryffindor-shaped box; or herself and her apparent inability to keep her own mouth shut when her temper was roused.

"And now you've really done it, my girl," she told herself aloud. "Two bloody weeks of coaxing the man into behaving like a human being, and you've just blown it sky high because you can't control your temper. You're worse than Harry!" Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to calm down. Seething with anger was no way to get anything accomplished.

Instead, Hermione carefully inspected her progress so far. The circle with its statue and benches had been cleared back completely, and the pebbled walkway that ran through the center had been cleared of years of debris. Usually the sight of the butchered roses made her cringe, although by experience she knew the heavily pruned growth would rebound generously in only a few short weeks. Now, however, it matched her mood perfectly.

Following the path to the cutting garden, she was gratified to see that clearing the weeds had allowed for some of the self-seeding annuals to grow, spindly and pale, and here and there was the promising swell of buds. Pity there wasn't any foxglove growing, so she could use it to poison Professor Snape.

"Stop it," she hissed to herself, irritated at her own inability to get over her snit. Come dinnertime, she'd have to apologize to the man. There was nothing for it, and Snape could be counted upon to make it as painful and humiliating as possible. Consigning the situation to the back of her mind, Hermione made an effort to inspect the rest of the garden.

The green shoots escaping their beds had sprouted odd, white flowers with sharp petals and deep purple throats. They were beautiful, but the fragrance made her wary of cutting them for the house. Snape would have to be consulted before they were dealt with, and she had little hope of dragging the man out into the sunshine even before this morning; now there was almost no chance he'd be willing to venture out of the house.

Passing to the back of the greenhouse and inspecting the small stand of fruit trees growing wild, she decided it was time to battle the immense drape of wild grape vines blanketing the wall. The long tendrils were reaching greedily for the remaining original trees and grasping the few remaining trained branches. Left alone, they would likely strangle the trees within a season or two.

An hour later, Hermione was sweating profusely, wishing she'd remembered her pruning knife, and resenting house elves who enforced their outmoded sense of propriety on unwilling house guests. The long, sturdy gown was streaked with green and her hands were getting blistered inside the gloves. Pulling off the gloves and stuffing them in her pocket, she swiped her face with the back of her arm, stood back and surveyed her progress. The trees were safe, but the more she pulled at the vines the more greenery seemed to cascade over the top of the wall. The vines were probably rooted on the far side of the stone barrier and growing freely up the side.

Seized with a sudden inspiration, Hermione grasped a large handful of the woody vines and planted her shoe on a protruding rock in the recently-uncovered wall. A quick pull had her nearly two feet higher. Near her head was another bit of rock, the mortar between it and its neighbor weathered down to allow room for her fingers to slide in. Another foothold and a pull, and she was higher still.

Carefully negotiating her way, she climbed the wall, unnerved both by her distance from the ground and a large lizard that skittered away when she disturbed it. The vines were thicker as she approached the top of the wall, and for her last foothold she trusted a heavy twist of bark rather than the stones that had grown progressively smaller as she progressed upwards. With a heave and wordless rising note of hope, Hermione reached the top of the wall.

Both exhausted and euphoric at her accomplishment, she peered over the barrier for the first time. As expected, the vista consisted of forest stretching out before her, sun-dappled and full of deep shadows. Trees grew up nearly to the perimeter of the wall, leaving only a narrow path of brambles that presumably grew up to the base of the wall on the other side. Cautiously finding another level foothold, Hermione examined the capstones along the top of the wall. No runes or other marks were discernable, but she'd listened to enough of Bill Weasley talking about his job to know that appearances were deceiving.

The vines were perfectly healthy where they lapped over the edges, and the lizard she'd startled earlier blinked at her before scurrying up and over to disappear into the greenery on the other side. Well, that answered that – the wards did not keep living things from entering or leaving. A logical conclusion, considering the owls that delivered the Daily Prophet, but one could never assume anything about magical wards. The big question, however, was whether or not something with a brain larger than its eyeball could pass through as well. It wasn't something she could examine at length, though, as her calf muscles were beginning to quiver with the strain and it would not be unusual for Whitlock to come looking for her before too much time passed.

Taking a firm grip on the handful of vines with her right hand, Hermione raised her left and inched towards the air directly over the wall. A faint breeze rustled through the leaves, but something more than wind caused the hair on the back of her arm to raise up. Mindful of the warning but unwilling to give up, she set her teeth together in determination and pushed her hand forward. A faint nimbus of blue-white light danced around her fingertips and the edges of her palm, until she reached the invisible plane set by the far side of the wall.

With a snap of ozone and flash of light, a jolt of magic zapped through her body, causing all of her muscles to spasm. Her precarious toe-hold was lost and her stomach gave a sickening lurch as she dropped, scrabbling desperately for purchase. The vine in her right hand ripped, causing her to plunge further, an unwilling shriek erupting from her throat.

Another pop, and then another sounded as the vines came loose, dropping Hermione the ten feet from her perch to the ground below. One foot hit first, sliding out from under her in a crunch of gravel and dust, lost in the deluge of leaves, sticks, and witch. Her backside hit next, jarring her spine all the way up to her skull and causing white stars to line her vision. More leaves fell on top of her.

"Ow," she said faintly. Her lungs were reluctant to work again, after having the breath knocked out of her so thoroughly, but with shallow breaths and hesitant movements she managed to curl her body to one side while deciding which part of her hurt the most. Taking inventory from the bottom up, she decided that her ankle was still functional, her bum hurt, and her head hurt abominably. After gingerly tilting it back and forth, however, she decided it would probably remain attached.

Easing back on her right elbow, Hermione peered up at the wall once more, thinking that in hindsight that climbing it probably hadn't been a good idea. Why not, whispered that other part of her brain, the one she usually tried not to listen to. Without climbing, she would never have known that the barrier truly existed. And hadn't she lived inside boundaries long enough? Looking up at the wall and torn vines again, Hermione's mouth opened and the words that came out bypassed her internal censor without a quibble.

"Bloody hell," she said.

For all the times she'd ever admonished her friends for using foul words, no matter how provoked, Hermione had never really understood until this exact moment how utterly appropriate and appealing that kind of language could be. Or how good it felt to just let it out.

Vaguely wondering if she'd managed to give herself a concussion, she tried to pull her mental processes back under control but they were too busy cataloguing every single curse word she'd ever heard. The control she'd always kept on her thoughts and her words had been shaken loose, and at this exact moment, with her body in pain and her head swimming, it seemed like too much effort to put things back they way they had been.

Boundaries were all very well and good, she reasoned, but her normal logic processes had been scrambled and turned on their collective ear. She had spent her entire existence learning the rules, the proper codes of conduct, and staying within the limits of what was right and wrong. And what had it earned her? A Head Girl badge she hadn't really wanted, a best friend who was destined to battle the greatest evil in the known world, and her current position as houseguest and hostage of the meanest professor to ever dock points at Hogwarts.

Another handful of leaves drifted down, one landing in Hermione's hair. She brushed at it with her left hand, only to let out a hiss of pain. Her fingertips, when she looked at them, each bore several small blisters. For whatever reason, the sight of those blisters made her earlier anger return with full force.

"Stupid effing wards," she grumbled, swiping at her hair once more, this time with her right hand which was sore but in better shape than her left. "Stupid effing Snape and his sodding spineless house elves." The more she thought about it, the angrier she became.

"Arrogant sodding Slytherin. You act like you know everything, but keep it all to yourself! You and Dumbledore are both a useless pair of wankers! You say it's to keep us safe, but you're perfectly content to let us fight your sodding war for you!"

Eyes closed, not even entirely sure who she was shouting at, it still felt marvelous. "Keep your secrets, you sneering gobshite! The only thing I want is a bloody WAND!"

Exhausted, but overwhelmed with the impulse to drum her heels on the ground in a true display of childishness, Hermione threw herself backwards and put an arm over her face to blot out the sunlight. Her temples throbbed, reminding her that had been an unwise movement. Trying not to think of anything, she lay still like that for an undeterminable amount of time.

Eventually, not sure if she'd dozed off or not but feeling more herself, she gingerly sat up and took stock. Leaves and other debris lay all around her, but her body felt cooperative enough to attempt standing. Thinking there was nothing else for it but to try, Hermione put her hand down on the ground in preparation to the effort. A hard length under her palm gave a warning creak, and she froze.

Gingerly, not even daring to hope, Hermione wrapped her fingers around the piece and lifted it from the grass, gravel, and other flotsam on the ground. Just like her old wand, the piece in her hand was a length of vinewood. Having grown around some other slender object, possibly a sister vine, this piece twisted and curved in a convoluted pattern that was more complicated than any wand she'd ever held, but still fit very comfortably in her hand. Bits of bark still clung to the wood, but on the whole it was well seasoned. It was a bit longer than her old wand, but retained the same grain pattern she'd known so well after nearly seven years of use.

Feeling somewhat dazed, the young woman looked up at the mass of green draped over the wall. All her previous reading on the subject of magic wands had indicated that the one seeking a magic wand should meditate, pray, or otherwise prepare themselves before going to the woods in a supplicant manner to ask for a wand. A ritual purification probably wouldn't hurt either. It had all sounded a bit wooly to her, but a lot of Old Magic seemed that way to her hopelessly logical mind. Nowhere in her studies, however, had the recommended approach included falling, ripping loose branches, or having a tantrum.

"Um… thank you," she spoke aloud, feeling only a little bit foolish as she tucked the wand into her other pocket. A sense of being watched grew as she gingerly stood up. The loose bits of green on the ground took only a bit of effort to tidy up, and she managed it quickly. "Thanks again," she whispered, walking backwards for several steps before it felt safe to turn and make her way back to the house.

Author's notes:

Miss Morrible is the horrid press secretary to the Wizard in "Wicked."

"Say 'pardon,' not 'what,' dear," is a direct quote from Bridget Jones' mother.

Priori Consuetudo – Prior relation with lovers


	9. Updated Finally!

30 June, 1998 cont.

The breakfast room was refreshingly dim and quiet when Hermione returned to the house. The headache she'd earned from her adventures in the garden continued to throb in her temples, and her body was starting to ache from the abuse of falling down ten feet of stone wall to a gravel pathway. The broad-brimmed straw hat, she noticed as she plucked off her gloves, was decidedly worse for wear. Although she couldn't be sure, she thought she might have landed on it. Not that she was worried; Bitta could probably mend it with a snap of her little green fingers. She left the hat and gloves on the little table by the French doors and drifted towards the center of the house.

An off-key bonging from the large hall clock informed her that it would be at least another hour before the midday meal would be served. That gave her enough time to get to her room before either house elf saw her, assuming they were both occupied in the kitchens. If her luck held, she'd have an opportunity to clean up and change her clothing, as well as formulate a proper apology, before she was forced to face the master of the house.

Or not, she thought, as she limped towards the foot of the stairs and realized Severus Snape was standing at the top. His displeased expression became more neutral as he took in her appearance, and Hermione had to assume she must look something close to the way she felt. As it was, she had a strong suspicion the majority of her hair had escaped its plait and was sticking out in all directions.

"Professor," she greeted him with what wary dignity she could scrape up.

"Miss Granger. I assume you have an explanation for your disheveled state?"

"I had an accident in the garden," she told him, taking the first few stairs gingerly. Her ankle protested with a sharp flare of pain. "I was climbing up to do some pruning, and I fell."

"I see. Are you injured?"

Hermione shrugged, and then winced at the pull of abused muscles. "Nothing serious, I don't think."

The man descended to her level, his dark eyes inspecting her from crown to hem and missing nothing to judge by the frown he directed at her sore ankle. Acutely aware of the piece of wand wood in her pocket, Hermione forced her hand to remain casually on the banister. While she fully understood his reason for not returning her own Ministry monitored wand, she did not want to give him an opportunity to forbid any wand at all.

"You appear to be in no little discomfort. I'll have one of the house elves bring you--" he stopped abruptly, looking ill at ease.

"Never mind," she said quickly, guessing his intent. "I know there aren't any stockpiles of potions here in the house. I'm just glad Madame Pomfrey isn't here to insist I stay in the Hospital Wing all day. I think I'll just clean up and have a bit of a lie-down."

"I have a requisition in at the apothecary supply house, which should be delivered in a day or two. If you are in need, however, I will send Whitlock with a special order."

"No, I'll be fine, really," she insisted, disarmed by his willingness to overlook their previous argument and the generosity of his offer. As thoroughly paranoid as the man was, she knew such a special order might be noticed by parties who would wonder at it.

Snape nodded once, and resumed his journey down.

"Professor," she called after him. He paused. "I apologize for my comments earlier. They were unfair, and rude."

"Accepted, Miss Granger." He paused, and just as she thought he might reciprocate the apology, he added, "By the way, I have received another summons from the Ministry in regards to the incident at Hogwarts. It is doubtful I'll return before dinnertime."

Hermione refrained from rolling her eyes. Of course not. Apologies were not in his vocabulary. They each continued on their respective ways, and she was relieved to reach her room at last.

Bitta had finally charmed the spigot in the bath to run when rapped twice smartly. It was a touch painful on the knuckles, and the water was always a bit too hot, but it was worth it and much more convenient than trying to summon either the old house elf or her skittish grand-nephew. The extra heat in the water, however, felt marvelous to her abused body. She lay in the luxuriant water for a moment, anticipating the block of fresh, still-unseasoned soap waiting for her on the tray, until a thought occurred and eyes flew open in a panic.

Sitting up suddenly in the full tub, she cast about in search of the clothes she'd shed coming in. The sturdy gown was still hanging on the hook behind the bathroom door, and she got out, dripping everywhere, to reclaim her prize from the pocket. Looking around the room, she tried to figure out where to stash the vinewood until she had a chance to do something with it. Bitta was frighteningly efficient in her laundry and tidying duties, and Hermione could not count on any portion of her room remaining undisturbed for long.

However, there were a few parts of the housethat were off limits. Snape's lab was one location, but the obvious drawback was the presence of the potion master himself. The library, however, had been abandoned of all care, to judge by the amount of trash that had accumulated in it, and the old master's office was proscribed as well. Either one had potential.

Nothing if not practical, Hermione used the wooden length to secure the mass of hair on the back of her neck to keep it out of the water. It had indeed come out from its earlier braid, but at this stage needed brushing more than washing. Settling back into the curve of the tub, Hermione relaxed again, soaking until the water cooled and she felt nearly human.

She barely winced as she emerged and dried herself off. Brushing her hair into submission and rebraiding it was more of an effort, but she felt well enough get dressed rather than succumb to the temptation of the lumpy bed. With Snape's absence from the house, she had a window of opportunity to muck about without his noticing.

Tucking the vinewood into the pocket of her servant's robes, Hermione stole down the long staircase to the library hallway. She had spent little time here in the last few weeks, and had nowish to alert the house elves to her renewed interest.

To her surprise, the library had been cleaned since she last visited. The few remaining books had been collected together and placed on freshly dusted shelves alongside the old desk. The only lamp that had not been moved to Snape's lab hung over the desk, the brass polished and the panes of glass sparkling in the light that shone through the transom windows above. The rest of the room had been dusted, polished, and waxed until even the worm-eaten woodwork gleamed. The elves must have been ecstatic.

Trailing her fingers over the books' worn bindings, Hermione located the outdated texts dealing with the management of a wizarding household she'd seen on her first visit. They lacked indexes and the table of contents were vague, but the actual content - regarding charms and other advice for cooking, cleaning, and child minding - was written for either idiots or distracted witches with far too much time spent doing the actual work of keeping house to spend any time reading books on keeping house. She was able to skim through several volumes in a few minutes.

The next to the last book proved to be the most informative on the subject of wands. The others had contained a few paragraphs here and there on the subject of polishing wands, repairing minor cracks, and ways to keep the wood in good condition, but anything touching on repair or construction had recommended that be left to the professional wand maker.

This particular text, however, was written at a slightly higher level and mentioned how one could, in an emergency, replace the magical core of a wand until a suitable replacement could be purchased. Hermione read over the instructions, which seemed a bit simplistic, but evoked a hazy resonance in her memory of other reading she'd done in the past.

All that remained was for her to find a core. And someplace to stash her blank wand until she could get it one.

One solution was right in front of her, and Hermione made quick work of pulling some of the more ragged volumes slightly forward, leaving a small space between the books and the back of the shelf. The potential wand fit, but the twists required more space than she'd anticipated, and left a noticeable gap. Unsatisfied, she put it back in her pocket and glanced around the library, mulling over everything she knew about Pureblood wizards in general and Snapes in particular. Searching by hand might not be the most clever thing she'd ever done, but a reckless impulse had been growing steadily within her and was firmly in control as she began poking and prodding the woodwork and flat panels in the room.

Ten or so minutes later, a hollow thunk answered her inquisitive knocking along the wall where a small, decorative plaster panel adorned the wall below a recessed alcove. A statue had once stood here, judging by the stained square left on the floor of the little niche. The wall below it was only waist-high and the plaster was decorated with a rather innocuous, almost nauseating little spray of flowers. Her fingers searched the edges and found a tiny hold on the bottom of the panel. With a sprinkle of dust and great reluctance, the wood and plaster piece lifted away from the wall and revealed a small hiding place behind it.

Manuscripts full of Dark Arts spells would not have surprised her, nor weapons or even illegal potions ingredients. What she did find, however, was a complete contrast.

The first thing to catch her eye was a small circular mound of twigs, gathered by a wren some decades ago, still miraculously holding itself together. Within the nest was a trio of marbles, brightly colored still despite the patina of age and the many chips that showed they had seen hard use. Next to the nest lay an ancient quill, still lovely despite the broken shaft and moth-eaten featherings. A piece of pyrite, a chunk of milky quartz, and several flat, oval skipping stones were piled in one corner. Little boy treasures all, they were charming in their simplicity. The other corner, propped up in solitary splendor, held an old black and white photograph.

With great care Hermione took it out and held it up in the better light. The young woman in the photograph shielded her eyes from the recorded flash, then offered a nervous smile. She wasn't beautiful; in fact she could only charitably be called plain. Her strong features were interesting and in time would suit an older woman, but at the age at which the photo was taken, which appeared to be nineteen or twenty, her features were overwhelming. Long black hair cascaded over her shoulders, held back by a set of combs. Her eyes and eyebrows where both very dark and prominent, and her nose was only slightly smaller than the one she would leave to her son.

Flipping the photo over to see if her guess was correct, Hermione could just make out, in a schoolgirl script, the name 'Levania Damaskinos Snape' and the year '1954.' While she had difficulty imagining Professor Snape as a child, she supposed that he must have been one at some time. How strange to find evidence of it here, so carefully hidden away.

"So, you're Snape's mother?" she muttered to the photograph. The figure did not respond; being so old the image had little of the original personality left from its subject. While wizarding portraits had been perfected several centuries ago, the photograph was a relatively new innovation. And considering how slow the culture was to adopt new inventions, she was surprised to see a wizarding photo this old that moved at all.

The thought of her former professor reminded Hermione suddenly of the time and the reason for rummaging through Snape's childhood treasure trove. The picture was replaced exactly where she'd found it, and the vinewood retrieved from her pocket and tucked diagonally into the small space before she returned the plaster panel to the tiny hooks that held it in place.

With her book on household charms tucked under one arm, Hermione sauntered casually back towards the breakfast room. Her sore ankle complained, but in the face of Bitta's impatience she obediently sat down and ate her lunch.

After she'd finished, she asked Bitta if she knew any healing charms. Flipping open the book, Hermione turned to the section on first aid and asked the house elf if she was capable of performing any of the minor spells to heal small wounds or bruises.

"No," was the flat reply.

"Oh, well. I suppose house elves have their own magic, don't they? The house elves at Hogwarts would never tell me much of anything, actually. I've tried to ask them about themselves, but no matter what I did I seemed to offend them, and they'd never really explain what I'd said or done that was so offensive."

The matriarchal elf gave Hermione a long look before shaking her head so hard her ears flapped. "A proper witch would know what she'd done. She'd know not to do it in the first place."

Hermione grabbed her crumb-strewn plate before Bitta could vanish it, and held on. "So you're saying you can't even tell me what I'm doing wrong."

More ear flapping answered her as Bitta directed the dishes towards the kitchen. The dish in Hermione's hands tugged insistently, but she refused to let go.

"And you can't heal minor scrapes or sore muscles, either," she asked aloud.

The elf froze in the act of pointing to the half-finished glass of pumpkin juice on the table. Hermione thought about making a grab for it, but opted to keep a firm hold on what she did have.

"So, what exactly can you do, Bitta? You can take orders, and you can do the chores, but you can't do anything you truly want to do?"

"Miss should not ask such things," the elf muttered.

"I do ask, Bitta. I've been playing by the rules of someone else's game for far too long, and I'm sick of it. What about you?"

The tiny shoulders, covered by an antique lace pillow case, slumped and then shrugged fatalistically.

"House elves does as they is told, Miss. Bitta serves her Master. Bitta carries on, Miss. Long after you are gone, we house elves will carry on." The elf turned and raised her head, her shoulders straightening.

"Bitta is not allowed to heal the young lady without the Master's express permission," she added.

Her eyes met Hermione's, and the young woman was struck by the impression of age, and power, and a vast, endless patience that endured beyond human understanding. With a snap of her fingers she vanished, along with the juice, crumbs, and the dish in Hermione's hands.

&&&H&P&H&G&S&S&&&

A nap after lunch left Hermione stiff and out of sorts, especially when Bitta appeared in her room with a set of robes that bore more resemblance to the tacky robes she'd worn for her first night's dinner at Snape Manor.

"Master says that Miss will dress for dinner. Master says Miss will behave herself properly before company, or Miss will be very sorry."

"Miss is already sorry," Hermione grumbled under her breath, but rose and obediently put on the gown she'd been given. To her surprise these were newer and better fitting, but were still rather low-cut for her taste. The neckline left a wide strip of pale white skin showing between it and the tanned and burnt skin a little higher up on her chest which looked frankly ridiculous. Bitta tutted over it, and found another scarf of ivory silk to drape around Hermione's shoulders, covering both the white and reddened skin with complete modesty.

Bitta did her hair again, this time in a series of braids twined around the rest of the mass. After the elf disappeared with a pop, Hermione was obliged to wait until she was summoned. When she was at last allowed to leave her room, she wandered down towards the dining room and was not surprised to see Lucius Malfoy sitting at Snape's formal table.

Somewhat to her surprise, both men rose at her entrance. Malfoy made a show of examining her face and body, no doubt cataloging the scratches and bruises Hermione had earned earlier that afternoon. She was forced to be gracious as the tall blond man held a chair for her. All was propriety until she was seated; then his fingers trailed across the back of her neck, and she swore she heard him chuckle at her involuntary shudder.

While her appearance at dinner had been mandatory, her participation in conversation was decidedly not. Both men ignored her completely as they ate the duck Bitta served. Hermione didn't really care for duck but she nibbled on the crispy skin and ate her peas one at a time while the men talked.

As it turned out, the Ministry had completely cleared Severus Snape of any complicity in the attack on Hogwarts. They discussed the decision the Board of Governors had just announced regarding the re-opening of the school, and the foolishness that body showed by setting a date without a Headmaster or Deputy Head to run the school.

"I've received an owl from the Governors earlier this afternoon," Severus told Lucius quietly. "I'm to expect an interview with them some time next week. With any luck, I'll be able to return to my duties as Potions Master and Head of Slytherin. Our Lord will be pleased, I hope."

"I thought you were setting up shop here," Lucius countered. "You certainly seemed eager to cut the geas of Hogwarts when you had the chance."

"Anything to get out from under Dumbledore. The man was a menace." He ate a bite and chewed it savagely. "I will have my supplies within a few days, and be free to pursue my own interests. Dumbledore would never let me venture towards some of the possibilities I saw in my work. Kept saying I'd corrupt the children, or myself."

He snorted, and threw back a half a glass of wine in what seemed to be reckless abandon. "I think I know my limits." His black eyes lingered malignantly on Hermione, and she felt a chill go through her. "That reminds me, Miss Granger. My day was interrupted by a special delivery owl. Do you know why?"

"No, sir," she managed, in a tiny voice.

Snape slipped a hand into the front of his frock coat and withdrew a sheet of parchment, folded many times, and gave it a contemptuous flick of his wrist. It flew across the table and landed atop her roll plate.

Unfolding it, she read the short, rather terse note from the Potion Makers and Alchemists Guild, demanding he duly register Hermione to his service and pay the requisite fee to the guild of 20 galleons, plus a 10 galleon fee.

"Someone at the Potions Master Guild apparently read the Prophet the other day," Snape added with a growl. "I've been fined for having an apprentice without placing her under a proper contract."

Hermione glanced at Lucius Malfoy through her lowered eyelashes, and then towards Snape. This was what he meant by proper behavior. "I don't have any money," she told him quietly, doing her best to sound miserable. A back corner of her mind put its hands on its hips and loudly reminded her that she'd just given the bastard her Gringotts key and access to her life's savings. She told it to hush.

"We can work it out in trade," Snape assured her in an oily voice, and Hermione's shiver was entirely involuntary. Another sheet of parchment emerged from Snape's coat and he slid it to her this time.

"Sign it," he demanded, and snapped his fingers. An ink pot and a quill appeared at her elbow.

It was a standard Apprentice contract, fully binding on the apprentice's side, but able to be terminated at the merest whim of the master. Snape had already filled in most of the details.

"I didn't say read it, I said sign it!" he thundered. Hermione jumped and grabbed the quill. Her signature was shaky, but apparently satisfactory as the parchment glowed and duplicated itself. One set rolled itself up and tied itself with a ribbon, waiting to be sent to the Guild. The other two, one for herself and one for her Master, waited quietly on the table.

"I feel so much better, now, knowing that your future is assured," Lucius pronounced. Hermione dearly wanted to throw her roll at his head. Instead she went back to eating her dinner, one small mouthful at a time.

&&&H&P&H&G&S&S&&&

Impatient with Lucius and his attentions to Hermione, Severus drew his wand and cast a burbling hex around himself and his guest. It wasn't the same as a silencing charm, but worked just as well. Rather than complete silence, Hermione or anyone else outside the perimeter would hear only deep and indistinct voices, like Mermish in the deep waters of Hogwarts Lake.

Lucius took the opportunity to more closely examine the young woman who sat opposite him. Her face had a faint bruise on it, and several reddened scrapes. He had noticed her ginger movement as she'd come into the dining room.

"Really, Severus. Surely you were taught better?" He smiled thinly at the glower Severus sent him. "You must have been terribly rough on your toys, as a child."

"It does not matter, as long as you understand that this toy is mine," he warned in a low voice.

Lucius held up his hands in mock surrender. "I recognize your claim, Severus. Even your precious Guild recognizes it as such."

He knew full well that an apprentice contract could be used to keep the girl Snape's prisoner indefinitely. In theory, even if she should run away, he could use the guild contract to track her down and retrieve her. In actuality, more than fifty years had passed since the last time the Ministry made anyone honor an apprentice contract they wanted out of, unless the apprentice owed a great deal of money. Even in those cases, the Ministry would usually force the Master in question to accept a payment schedule rather than return a witch or wizard to a position they desired so greatly to be rid of.

As their discussion turned to the raid on Diagon Alley that had been abruptly cancelled the night before, Lucius continued to watch the young woman across from him. Hermione Granger sat with her hands in her lap, waiting quietly. Rumor had it that she was a harridan of the first water at the school, but here she sat, apparently biddable and brought to heel. If this Mudblood chit could hold not only his callow son's attention, but that of a mature and seasoned man, what was there about her that was so intriguing?


	10. A conversation with Grandmama

1 July, 1998

Moving the next morning took more effort than Hermione really felt like putting into the job. The muscles in her back protested every change of angle, and her head was gripped with a dim ache that seemed to turn all the colors to a gray-toned offense to the sight. A glimpse of her face did little to improve her mood; the scratches on her face were red and angry.

The need for the loo forced her out of bed, and once she got moving it was easier to keep going. Getting dressed, brushing her hair and teeth, and bending over to get her shoes on loosened the muscles up enough to get her body re-accustomed to moving, and by the time she was ready to leave her room she was no longer resenting the basic concept of civilization as a whole.

Walking gingerly down the stairs, she noted that it was later than usual. In the breakfast room, an empty cup and a plate with crumbs beside the morning's paper was evidence that Snape had already come and gone. Tea and toast, despite the lack of a generous slather of Nutella, improved Hermione's outlook on life to the point that she thought she would eventually get over feeling so very sore, so she enjoyed a second cup while she read the paper.

The doors to the patio and the garden beyond were wide open, letting in the sunlight and the fresh breeze, but Hermione had no ambition to tackle the garden for the next day or so. It would survive her efforts for meanwhile, and she had other things to think about. Such as her wand.

Taking her tea with her, she meandered through the kitchen and checked on the rest of the soap that she'd left to cure on a rack in an out of the way corner. Bitta ignored her and Hermione returned the favor. Silently, she made her way into the parlor, looking at the faded but rich furnishings. Her fingers idly wandered up the keys of the pianoforte that had been consigned to a corner. Only one note still had enough tension in the wire to create a flat, muffled note. The sound thrummed through the otherwise silent room.

From nowhere, a voice spoke. "Did he do that to you?"

Spinning about, Hermione saw no-one in the room. She glanced about until she realized the woman in the portrait was looking at her.

"Good morning," she told the impressive woman. The portrait frowned at her impatiently.

"Good morning, then. Now answer the question. Did my grandson do that to you?" The woman's voice was cultured, with perfect diction, and had the faintest burr of a Russian accent.

"I fell, in the garden."

An elegant snort of disbelief came from the gilt frame. "Don't lie to yourself, girl. It's an insult to you and to every other woman who's had to suffer under a monster like Severus."

Hermione blinked in surprise. "That's rather harsh way to refer to your grandson."

"You don't know the boy the way I do. That man is a Death Eater and a monster, just like his father before him."

The woman's venom was astonishing. Hermione had expected something more like Sirius Black's mother, who ranted and raved from her full sized portrait at everyone who did not meet her standard of proper Pureblood mania for the Dark Lord.

"I think perhaps you do not know him as I do," she returned cautiously.

The portrait gave an irritated 'hrmff.' "What is your name, girl?"

"Hermione Granger. I was Professor Snape's student until a few weeks ago. I suppose I'm his apprentice, now. He had me sign a contract last night."

"Professor Snape," the woman mocked. "Well, girl, my name is Charlotte Elena Fyodorovna. Snape," she added as an afterthought.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," Hermione replied. Because the situation seemed to call for it, she managed a short bob of a curtsey. The old woman nodded, as if it were her due, and to an older Pureblood woman it probably was.

"Sit down, girl. Now, tell me the truth. He beat you, didn't he?"

Pulling a squashy ottoman forward, Hermione settled on it and addressed the portrait of Charlotte Snape. "Honestly, no. I did this myself, climbing the wall in the back garden."

"Were you trying to escape from my grandson?"

Hermione gave her a look. "Mrs. Snape, you seem determined to paint Professor Snape as a villain, if you'll forgive the pun."

The woman raised one eyebrow, and eerie echo of the man they were discussing. "Don't play coy with me, Miss Granger. I ask you again. Did he beat you when you tried to escape?"

"No, I really did fall. And I wasn't trying to escape. I was just... testing my boundaries, so to speak." She took a deep breath, wondering how much she should tell her.

"Recently I've started to realize that other people are setting limits for me, and I've just been going along with it. But I think it's time I found out for myself what is really a limit, and what's just a line in the sand. Does that make any sense at all?"

"I see," the woman replied archly, but a sly, delighted smile spread over her aristocratic features. "You're a clever one, aren't you? It took me quite a few years to learn that."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Call me Charlotte, if you would. If nothing else it will give my grandson apoplexy to hear you say it. So tell me, then. He doesn't beat you, but you're still locked up here like the others. Why are you here?"

"I'm not entirely sure, actually. You know that Professor Snape is a Death Eater?"

"Yes, child. That, I'm well aware of."

Hermione related the story of her last day at Hogwarts and how Snape had claimed her in front of the others.

"So you're his whore?" Charlotte asked baldly.

"No! He hasn't touched me like that. He seems embarrassed every time the subject comes up."

"If he doesn't like girls, why did he claim you then?"

Hermione hadn't really considered her professor's sexual orientation before, but it did not seem to be in question. "No, I'm pretty sure he likes girls. He was simply going along with the role."

Instantly she regretted even saying anything, but Charlotte guessed her reluctance.

"Don't worry, child. You needn't worry about opening your budget to me – I've no other copies anywhere in the world, and there are no other portraits in this house save mine. I've refused to speak to anyone in my family for decades, so you need not think I shall go bearing tales to anyone else."

That was a legitimate concern for Hermione – she was far too aware that many portrait subjects retained their loyalties even into their painted afterlife. However, the comment Snape had made a few days ago came back to her – that his grandmother's portrait hadn't spoken to anyone in twenty-odd years, and he'd like to keep it that way. And more than anything, it was astonishing how overwhelming the need was to talk about some of the things she'd been mulling over lately in this silent house.

"Professor Snape is a spy," she whispered.

Charlotte did not seem surprised, but she looked to be the kind of woman who could handle almost anything life threw at her. Hermione was momentarily struck with regret that she was no longer alive – she would have been a formidable ally in this house.

"A spy, or a double agent? Does he play both sides against each other?"

"I'm not a hundred percent sure," she confessed. "I think he's totally committed to our side, but…"

"No, you can never be sure a man like that," Charlotte told her. "Trust me, I know all too well."

When pressed, Charlotte Snape told Hermione a bit about herself. Then a bit more, and before she knew it, they had been chatting nearly all morning.

Charlotte Elena Fyodorovna had been born in Moscow in 1901. When the Bolsheviks had taken over in 1917, her father had sent her out of Russia with a large chunk of the family fortune and one young house elf named Bitta. His choice of refuge for his only child had been with an old friend and long time business partner named Sulpicianus Snape.

The Englishman wasn't fabulously wealthy but lived comfortably in a large family manor inherited, as a second son, from a more prominent branch of the family. At the time Charlotte came to live with him, he had two sons. Severus was the elder by several years, and was everything his proud father could want in a son. (The name confused Hermione for a moment, until she realized that Professor Snape must have been the namesake of this Severus, two generations earlier.) Charlotte thought the elder Snape son was a stuffy, cold-blooded English bastard. The second son Marcus, however, was much closer to Charlotte's age, charming and sincere, and apparently much better looking that his elder brother.

Hermione guessed the story even as Charlotte related it, from the clues she'd read in the Prophet. Charlotte had fallen in love with the younger son, and he with her. The problem, however, was the elder son. Severus Snape claimed primogeniture rights to the family dependent.

Unwilling to simply give up, Marcus challenged his older brother to a formal duel. Being only eighteen at the time, his twenty-five year old brother had prevailed, and claimed his reluctant bride. Marcus had left the family home almost immediately.

"If I'd had an iota of sense, I would have gone with him," Charlotte told Hermione tartly, "but no, I did what any well-bred, brainless Pureblood girl does."

"Closed your eyes and thought of England?" Hermione quipped, trying not to sniffle at the sad tale.

"Exactly. Severus was a horrid man, and I hated him thoroughly. He was boring, and lazy, and dreadful in the boudoir," she stated bluntly. "I bore Severus one son in 1925, and rather than naming him after his own father, the fool insisted on calling him Auberon."

"As in the elves?"

"And Auberon could have been an elf changling," Charlotte mused. "He was beautiful, perfectly made, with blond hair and sunny smile. My husband had little fathering instinct, and assumed that his son was as perfect inside as he was outside." She snorted again. "In actuality, the little monster was a nasty piece of work and should have been beaten regularly."

Auberon was not to be restricted in any way, his father declared. Charlotte was not allowed to discipline him. In fact, his father discouraged the boy from having anything to do with his mother.

"When he was seven, I caught him torturing one of his pets, and I gave him a walloping he would never forget. Severus was furious with me, and forbade me to touch him ever again. We fought furiously over that – it soon became the only time we ever spoke to each other.

"I waited, and I watched that boy. It pains me to admit I hated my own son, but I did. He was a vicious little beast, and he only got worse as he got older. Finally, in desperation, I wrote to Marcus. He was living in Brazil at that time, but I told him the honor and future of his family was at stake. I was a traditionally raised Pureblood witch, and I did what was expected to safeguard the family I had married into.

"Marcus returned when Auberon was about nine, I think. Severus welcomed him, as if all things were forgiven. He'd won the duel, after all. It didn't take Marcus long to realize what a hash his brother had made of being a father. Of course, the moment he said a word, Severus turned on him as well.

"With his brother criticizing how he raised his son, Severus was completely enraged. The fighting got worse every day. Severus accused Marcus of returning to steal his wife. It wasn't true. Marcus denied it of course, but Severus would not listen. I tried my best to convince my husband that my honor was true and that I had been faithful to him. But I agreed that Auberon was out of control, and if he didn't do something, the brat would turn out to be even less of a man than he was.

"He beat me," Charlotte confessed. "It wasn't unusual for him to be physical, to push me about or give the occasional slap. But this was the first time he showed me exactly how he felt about me and our marriage.

"That was, let's see, 1934. Grindelwald" and she pronounced the German word with the same rolled 'r' and 'vald' at the end the way Victor Krum had done "was on the rise, and my idiot husband was enthusiastic in his support." Charlotte paused in recollection.

"So then what happened?" Hermione urged, completely spellbound by the woman's tale.

The old lady's expression turned smug. "I told Severus that he was a pig's arse and his son was worse. I went to Gringotts and withdrew my entire dowry, before he could send it off to support that madman. Marcus and I became lovers. And I was never happier than when I left this house. We eloped and left England entirely."

Hermione laughed in amazement. Snape's grandmother was full of surprises, and thinking of an ultra-traditional Pureblood witch kicking over the traces so thoroughly was very entertaining.

"Severus was killed in 1940, when men from the Ministry stormed the house and found all of the documents and other evidence of his activities. He refused to surrender and was killed. The Snape monies and property was seized. My son was now fifteen, and living alone in this house, virtually penniless.

"Marcus and I came back as soon as we heard of what had happened, of course, but by then it was too late. He strutted around this house as if he owned everything. Perhaps he did own everything, but there wasn't much left to be so blasted proud about."

Hermione stifled a snicker. For all the times Professor Snape had made snide remarks about Harry strutting about, it sounded as though his father was even worse.

"Auberon was horrid to his uncle, who was technically his guardian, and utterly hateful to myself. If I so much as spoke to Marcus in his presence, he called me a whore. If I gave him money, he accused me of trying to buy him. I tried to tutor him, since he would not return to Hogwarts after his OWLS, most of which he failed, and he accused me of belittling his intelligence."

She sighed wearily. "I believe we fought loudly and bitterly nearly every single day for the next two years until he gained his majority. The day he turned seventeen, he demanded Marcus and I leave the family home. That was 1942, if I remember correctly, and Grindewald was still traipsing about Europe causing problems."

"Grindewald was defeated in 1945," Hermione supplied. Charlotte gave her a look that said 'don't be such a swot.'

"Marcus and I went back to Brazil, were married, and were fabulously happy for thirty years. He died when I was seventy-five years old, and for some unknown reason I decided to return to this house, perhaps out of some ridiculous sense of duty.

"I found that my son had turned out even worse that I'd expected," Charlotte declared. "He'd married some poor Greek girl with more money than common sense and no spine whatsoever, which was probably why he chose her in the first place. Poor girl was a wreck, and it was obvious he beat her regularly. My grandson was skinny little thirteen year old and just as sullen as his father had been."

"I tried to talk some sense into Levania, but she refused to leave her boy behind. She would have been well shot of him, I think. I told her the little brat would turn out like his father and grandfather before him, but she wouldn't listen."

"That's rather harsh, don't you think?" Hermione objected.

"Whose story is this?" Charlotte shot back. "My son forbade me to interfere in his family, and refused to let me stay in the family home. My owls were returned, any gifts I sent my grandson were destroyed.

"Finally, I gave up. I sent my son all the money I had left, save what I needed to live on, and returned to Brazil. This portrait was painted sometime before I died, and was sent to my son along with my other effects when I died."

"So, you don't actually know how you died?" Hermione asked. "I had always wondered about that. Portraits always seem to remember their lives up until they were painted, and of course anything that happened after they awaken, but nothing in between."

"No idea," Charlotte declared in a voice that indicated she didn't care, either. "I believe I lived the rest of my life in Brazil, and left instructions that this portrait and a single trunk of my things were all that were left to Auberon. You should have heard him rant," she said with relish. "I didn't leave him another Knut. He was so angry he had this portrait silenced for years."

"Your trunk… is it still upstairs? I found a number of things in the attic."

"Very likely. What difference does it make?"

"I don't suppose your wand is in there?" Hermione asked quickly.

"It's a blue trunk with brass corners; the wand is yours if you want it, girl. But don't be too excited – it was nearly worn out when I last saw it. Unless I obtained another after this portrait was painted, it's likely useless."

"Thank you. I'll go and look this afternoon."

"You're a nice child, girl. Why on earth are you not doing your best to escape this house?"

She shrugged. "He's not so bad."

"He's a Death Eater," Charlotte declared with disgust. "He used to bring his friends here, carousing all hours of the night."

Snape? Carousing? "How long ago was that?"

"All right, it's been nearly 20 years," Charlotte admitted. "Once his father was dead, he would come home with his hooligan friends, drinking and talking about the Dark Lord and how wonderful he was."

"That was only for a while, wasn't it?" Hermione asked.

"Nearly a year."

The girl on the ottoman shifted, nodding in thought. "My friends and I have a theory, that Professor Snape took the Dark Mark right out of school, and regretted it within a short time. I do know he became a Potions Master and a teacher around 1982."

Charlotte gave her a long look down her elegant nose. "You and your friends spend a lot of time worrying about your teacher, do you? Your girlfriends, I suppose?" she asked archly. "Of course, I was married at your age."

"NO!" Hermione blushed. The fact that her best friends were boys didn't help the assumption Charlotte had made. "Let's just say we found it prudent to identify the players in this war. And Professor Snape is definitely a player in this, so we've spent quite some time trying to figure out what makes him tick."

She and Ron had wondered if Professor Snape had had an abusive parent; the man certainly had some of the symptoms of such a childhood. Harry had refused to contribute to the discussion and flatly stated that it didn't matter what the man's background, it was still no excuse for the way he treated people.

Knowing Harry's own home life was less than ideal, she could admit he had a point, even if she didn't entirely agree with it.

"Well, my girl, if you ever want any help dealing with my grandson, I'll be the first to cheer you on. I hope you do your best to keep the man on his toes – it makes them easier to knock off balance when the mood suits you."

Hermione thanked her for the advice, and promised to do her best. In the meantime, she had a trunk to find.

&&&&&

After a quick lunch, Hermione went straight up into the attic. She hadn't thought there would be a wand in all the trunks and other junk up there, but it was certainly a good possibility. She located the blue trunk after a bit of a search and found it tucked under the lower eves along one side of the attic. It was locked, but the key was helpfully dangling on a stiff, desiccated leather cord tied to one handle.

The lock gave up after a bit of struggle, and she propped open the lid on another pile of junk. The interior was a beautiful blue satin, stained and faded with time. A small tray on one side held some combs and pins, and – aha! – a short yellowed wand!

Unfortunately the wood was so old it had cracked along the length of the wand, and the bits of wood were turning powdery. A faint glimmer down the middle revealed a single silver hair that Hermione recognized as a unicorn hair. She was able to extract it, with much lip-biting care, from the dry and disintegrating wood.

Under the wand was a packet of papers, and she gently untied the little bow to open them. The first sheet was a death certificate, written in Portuguese, she thought. One of the fields in the standardized form stated 'Falha de coração,' which she guessed meant heart failure.

The pins and hair combs were the only adornment in the trunk. Several light-weight robes, in a Grecian style, seemed appropriate to a warmer climate than Britain's. If they'd been in better condition, Hermione would have considered adopting them, but the cottons and silks were fragile and were beginning to tear just from being rearranged in the trunk. However much she detested them, it appeared as though she were stuck wearing the leftover maids' robes for the next little while.

An hour later, she had retrieved the length of vinewood from its hiding place in the library and wandered casually out into the garden. The decrepit Victorian greenhouse was a suitably private place for Hermione's experiment, and she gently unwound the unicorn hair from her finger and coiled it carefully around the twisted length of dry vine.

She wished once more that she had a decent book on wand making that would tell her what she desperately needed to know, but the heavens failed to open one and plop one down on the bench beside her. Instead, she took a deep breath, held both ends of the vine and the too-short hair, and concentrated on focusing her magic into the would-be wand in her hands.

The silver hair began to glow, and Hermione could barely contain her excitement as the vinewood also began to display little dots of bright color chasing themselves up and down the length of the wand. Her excitement was cut short, however, when the light abruptly flared, leaving an afterimage of the wand imprinted on her retina and singed her fingertips.

The wand clattered to the benchtop as Hermione cursed indistinctly around one red fingertip and then another as she sucked on the tiny burns that had appeared on her thumbs and index fingers. The vinewood appeared intact, but the unicorn hair was nothing more than a scorch mark that wound around the wood. Frustrated, she slid the vinewood onto one of the shelves, sliding it beside a collection of small pots that were in varying states of falling apart. Several long dowels were on the same shelf, obviously meant for tying up droopy plants, and the vinewood would be perfectly camouflaged by the other pieces.

Still blowing on one tiny blister, Hermione went back in the house, intending on going back to her room and finding the charm book she'd been reading lately. To her surprise, Snape was in the kitchen work area, his deep voice directing Whitlock and Bitta in some task.

Curious, she walked into the kitchen before thinking about it. "What's all this, then?"

Snape turned and gave her a dark look. "They're potions supplies, Miss Granger. After seven years at Hogwarts, I might have assumed you would be able to recognize them as such, but apparently I was too optimistic."

In no mood for His Royal Snarkiness, Hermione scowled back at him. "They're boxes, in plain paper. For all I know you're throwing a birthday party."

"Be silent!" he ordered shortly. "Bitta, you know what to do while I'm gone. Follow my instructions exactly."

"Yes, Master," the old elf replied, levitating a stack of boxes taller than she was towards her grand-nephew. Whitlock took over, making the stack bobble dangerously before it righted itself and followed him down the stairs to Snape's laboratory.

"If I do not return within two days, you have my instructions."

"Master will not die!" Bitta hissed vehemently.

In shock, Hermione realized Snape was wearing the long black robes of a Death Eater, looking entirely out of place in the neat, bright kitchen.

"You will see to it, Bitta. Do not disobey me on this."

"Professor…" Hermione wasn't sure what to say, and the tense, uncompromising expression on Snape's face did not help anything.

"I do not know when I will return," Snape continued, directing his comments to both Bitta and Hermione. "Try not to kill each other while I'm gone." His robes snapped loudly as turned, his quick stride taking him out of the room before Hermione could say anything further.

"Good luck," she whispered finally.


End file.
